Til Human Voices Wake Us
by ridiculous thoughts
Summary: AU. An amnesiac Harry enlists in the British military in the middle of a war against magical terrorism. He must unlock his past while hiding his memories from those around him, before he becomes an enemy of both sides.SLASH HPDM,Harry/Draco, Harry/other
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: not mine.

Summary: An amnesiac Harry enlists in the British military in the middle of a war against magical terrorism. He runs into familiar faces and must unlock his past while hiding his discoveries from the soldiers around him...or he just might find himself the enemy of both sides.

Warning: SLASH, mature situations, profanity, violence. Not for kids.

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**Prologue**

Private Benjamin L Thatcher knew that he was dead the moment the black-haired Angel fell from the sky and onto the street-cum-battlefield below.

At that moment, no longer was he the three-month-old recruit of Her Royal Majesty's army, who joined said army under the esteemed ambition of taking out as much terrorist ass from his beloved British soil as his gun could pick off, who prided himself in his own courage and daring in leaving his still-fuckable wife to undertake said task. No, at this moment he was the son of Owan Thatcher, proud owner of five Chemist shops in London, and Fanny Thatcher nee Fletcher, head stylist at the local curl Up and Dye Salon, husband of Gertrude, the newly promoted head clerk at March and Banks. He was twenty-one years-old-going-on-five and he had never been to Spain.

His life didn't flash before his eyes. Truthfully, there wasn't much of it to see anyway; but in that moment, when eyes green as the open fields of his homeland and empty as November rain lifted up and brushed Benjamin's soul, leaving it shriveled and gaping in a purposeless existence, he felt his own insignificance like a fly beneath the hand of God and did not protest his ending.

He was not alone. All around him, men and women once strong in their naive faith in logic and order and surety in the basic laws of gravity and cause-effect and action-reaction and all that crap they teach in high school science classes, found themselves frozen powerless under the conflict of sight versus mind, reality versus fiction, unable to shake off the vision of insanity before them. Gunfire ceased for the first time in hours; arms lowered; some even lowered themselves upon the Grand Hotel's Victorian carpeting like children settling down for afternoon storytime. In the windows of the three-story terrorist base across the street, shades were drawn; muzzles pulled back through the glass; shadowy figures blended into darkened rooms.

Then the Others appeared. Hooded and masked like ritualists in those vampire shows that Benjamin's little brother was enamored with, they snapped into existence like two slides of a splinted film, now three, now five, black spots in the evening streetlights. The number doubled. Doubled again. Yet only the Angel bared his face to the heavens.

One by one, the soldiers began to wake from their daze. Orders were shouted. Following them came instinctively to the forty-second division. To Benjamin, son of a Chemist store owner, husband to an aspiring bank clerk, three-month recruit in Her Majesty's army, whose own sense of purpose had just flown away as neatly as the Angel had glided into his sight mere minutes before, the only instinct left in his emptied mind was to hide behind the nearest closed door, which happened to lead to a richly decorated water closet.

He listened to the gunfire, the screams of horror, the running of panicked feet. He told himself that he did not hear the incantations, the words of a dead language revived in the mouths of God's own avatars, as colored lights flickered through the gaps in the door.

And when silence descended and Benjamin knew that the world had truly ended under a vengeful god's wrath, he dared a last glimpse out of the open bathroom window onto the darkened street below, and beheld a wondrous sight.

Zeus himself had arrived.

For it could only be Zeus, with his white flowing beard and the multi-colored lightning bolts strewn upon the hairless demon that opposed him. They shook the earth with their anger. All around them, smaller battles raged, but Benjamin could not look away from these two, whose power even he felt like an electrical current on his skin. Fire turned to water, to ice, to glittering pieces of flying glass, all in the space of seconds. Concrete shattered to dust. Lightposts melted off their foundations. The Hotel shook and wavered in protest to such violations in the fabric of reality.

Benjamin felt the change as a sudden desire to rejoice in his own questionable freedom. He couldn't understand the lifting in his heart when the battle below still raged just as fiercely, but he stood a little straighter, lifted his head a little higher, breathed a little deeper. The hairless demon moved fluidly, struck out faster and harder against the ancient god, whose movements had slowed but remained powerful.

It happened in a split second. From the sidelines raced a streak of black hair and robes. Like a genie released from its shackles, the Angel flew toward the center of the battle between god and demon, caught in a crossfire of power beyond Benjamin's imagining; for one breathless moment, haloed in green and golden light, Benjamin caught a glimpse of utter desperation in those eyes like the fields of his homeland, like November rain.

In the next moment, the Angel was gone.

And the world came tumbling down.

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A/N: Short, yes, but it's just a prologue. I'll post the next chapter next week.

If you/ve read my other story, Whatever it Takes, I'm sorry but it's on hiatus. I didn't have much of the plot in mind. This time, I already have ten thousand words written and will continue to post only when I have the following chapter drafted. Also, note the warnings of this chapter; this story will be very different from the previous and really should not be read by younger readers.

With that said, please review. It inspires me to write faster!

RT


	2. The New Recruit

**Disclaimer**: Training in the British army in this story takes place far, far away in the dubious reality of RT's mind and has absolutely no basis in fact, which will be obvious to anyone reading this who has actually been through such training (by the way, if you have, I'd love your help to make this more realistic).

**Beware** Americanisms and slaughtered accents. I'd happily accept corrections.

**Warning**: bad language ahead. See first sentence for details.

Any characters you recognize belong to JK Rowling. Story title belongs to TS Eliot. Some plot elements and lingo borrowed from Karin Lowachee.

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**Chapter One:**

**The new recruit**

"Holy shit. Holy shit. I just signed my life away to the fucking SAS. Holy shit."

Harry scowled at the skinny whinging kid on his right and plucked the cigarette out of his shaking fingers, tossing it out of the bus window before the guy even noticed it was gone. Across the aisle, a pony-tailed man with cold eyes smirked and winked at Harry when he looked over.

It sent chills down Harry's neck.

"Kid, you got the wrong bus if you think we fuckin' SAS," a man behind them called out in a rough voice. "SAS would fuckin' rip your balls off soon as look at you."

"That wanker got no balls, sweetie," said a woman.

There were a few sniggers, but the kid next to Harry didn't seem to hear any of it. He had just realized that his fingers were empty and said frantically to Harry, "Fuck, I dropped my smoke. You see where it went? Shit. Fuck. Shit."

Harry shrugged. The kid bent down to search under his seat, and he locked eyes again with the blond man across the aisle. Something about him tickled Harry's memory. He relaxed his mind, trying to let the connection come to him, but it was like trying to remember a dream after being shocked awake. It was a familiar feeling these days. He let it go, and, realizing that he'd been staring, turned back to the window.

Outside, a pastoral countryside view rushed by, broken here and there by farmhouses and clusters of sheep. Brisk morning wind ruffled his hair through the gap, bringing with it the smell of rain. Something about a cool wind on his face just felt peaceful to Harry; like he imagined a childhood memory must feel like. Fresh. Clean. Free.

He wouldn't know. To Harry, life had begun little more than one year ago in the antiseptic white of a hospital room with tubes sticking out of his nose and arms like an astronaut, and an ornery old woman who wouldn't let him sleep more than two hours without prodding at him to ask if he was still alive.

He'd come into this world with few possessions. A torn up cloak (and who does wear those these days?), some weird black costume, play money, a wooden stick, and a folded piece of paper were all the affects that the police had found on him when they picked him off the street in downtown Bradford-upon-Avon, injured and unconscious. They'd thought he might be some unfortunate kid who'd been in a fight on his way home from a party, or maybe a Star Wars convention. Harry didn't think so, but then he could have been Captain Kirk's stand-in at the local form school play for all he knew.

Harry might have survived that unlucky night, but his memory hadn't.

"Look, now he's crying, the bloody wanker. How's a chickenshit like that get enlisted?"

Indeed, an unsteady stream of snuffles now came from Harry's right, interspersed with curses and hiccups. He leaned farther to his left to avoid contact with the trembling arm.

The bus slowed down and turned off the main road, driving toward a barbed wire fence that seemed to stand in the middle of nowhere. As they approached the gate, an armed guard stepped out of a small building to their left and signaled them to stop. After a few minutes of speaking with the driver, a heavily mustached man entered the bus and they jerked forward through the gate. The officer never lost his footing as he stood there giving his welcome speech with the bus rolling and bumping along the road. Harry thought it was pretty toned down from what he had expected--short and to the point.

He introduced himself as Sergeant Blackstone, and gave the typical speech about how proud they should be to have reached phase two training (the kid next to Harry sniffed a bit at that). As new recruits, they were at the bottom of the ladder; they were not to eat, drink, or take a piss without explicit orders to do so. They had one day to memorize the rule handbook. He gave them some basic information, then did a roll call and allocated groups as he named them off. Harry was relieved to be placed in a separate unit from the whinging kid. The man across the aisle, however, was not called, and didn't raise his hand when the sergeant finished. He didn't look bothered by it either.

The bus stopped in front of a dull gray building, and Harry grabbed his duffel bag from the overhead compartment and followed the rest outside. A misty rain fogged up the grounds, and a few people turned up their collars in discomfort. Several buildings surrounded them, but through the gaps Harry could see an obstacle course and hear distant shouts over the wind.

The woman beside him turned to him with a feral grin and said, "Welcome to Hell, mate."

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Harry tossed his duffel onto his bunk, ignoring the weary chitchat of his fellow recruits as he dug out his toothbrush and headed to the washroom. It had been a long day; first the long bus ride from Bristol, then the two hour tour of the compound, paperwork and welcome speeches followed by a tense dinner in a crowded mess hall, followed by more paperwork and instructions and touring. The last thing he wanted to do tonight was swap life stories with his five bunkmates.

One boy was still in the room when he returned, sitting quietly on the bunk in the far corner and scribbling in a journal. Harry felt uncomfortable stripping down in front of others, especially in front of the two women of his unit who were in the washroom at the moment, so he did it as quickly as possible and laid under the sheets, facing away from the door so nobody would bother him when they came in.

As it turned out, everyone else was just as tired. The talk was awkward and subdued as the others readied for bed. It wasn't long until another recruit threatened to tape some mouths shut if they didn't shut up, and it wasn't long after that when the lights finally went out and Harry dropped gratefully into sleep.

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He woke at the touch of a hand over his mouth.

Harry's arm shot up in reflex but the shadow above him caught it, pulling him out of his bunk with a sharp twist that landed him onto the floor in a heap. By the time he found his feet, his attacker had moved on to the next bunk, and Harry noticed that two others of his unit were already awake and standing at attention in the dark, still barefoot and dressed in their smallclothes. He followed example, watching as two more recruits awoke to the same rough treatment amid grunts and curses until the last one rose on his own from the noise.

Once they were all standing, shivering in the dark but not daring to move, the three uniformed soldiers who had awakened them strolled up and down the aisle of bunks, examining each of them quietly as a crooked-nosed man at the front of the room dressed them down for their slow reaction time. One of the men stopped in front of Harry, and he realized with a pang of dread that it was the pony-tailed man from the bus. His cold eyes looked Harry up and down critically. When their eyes met, Harry shivered and looked away, uncomfortable. The man smirked and moved on to the woman beside him.

It was difficult to tell in the dark, but Harry didn't see any officer stripes on any of their collars.

The crooked-nosed man finally stopped his criticism and put on a dangerous smile. Glancing at his watch he said, "It is now oh-one hundred hours. In four hours, you will be official trainees, or twigs, in the top military school in the country. Until then…" his eyes twinkled, "…you're nothing but fem."

Harry glanced to his side in confusion, noticing the looks of nervousness and some fear on the faces around him. The pony-tailed man met his eyes and smiled.

"We're even going to be nice," the man in front continued, moving away from the door. "You get a fifteen second head start. After that, you're fair game."

Harry's company looked at each other hesitantly.

The man looked at his watch again. "Ten seconds," he said.

"He means run, shitheads," drawled the pony-tailed man.

A couple of the recruits stepped toward the door hesitantly; then, as no one countered the order, they broke into a run, and the rest followed. Outside, about twenty uniformed soldiers stood watching them as they emerged from the bunkhouse in sweats and underwear. Harry and most of the others slowed, but the woman beside him grabbed his arm and pulled him along with her, shouting "It's a sodding gauntlet run, you fuckers, go, go!" As the others caught on to her words, they picked up pace in a flat-out race away from the building. Behind them, a voice shouted "TIME!" and the night air was filled with the sounds of chase. Right away, a cry went up and Harry looked back to see one of their number already fallen and set upon by two of their pursuers like wild dogs.

They rounded a building and Harry saw the obstacle course up ahead. The remaining five split up, aiming for cover and trying to throw off pursuit. More yells went up as another soldier tripped on the uneven ground and turned around to fight her attackers.

Harry ran for all he was worth. He skirted a wide trench, passed a climbing net and came to a series of cement walls, running between them along with one other recruit. Ahead loomed a muddy field of barbed wire, and they had to bank left into another trench to avoid it.

After three days of rain, the bottom of the trench was filled with water up to their thighs, and they splashed through as fast as they could. Behind them, a group of five or six pursuers trailed in after them, slowed down by the weight of their combat boots sinking into the muddy bottom. Harry and the other recruit gained ground, but not much. While the other man headed for the other side of the bank, Harry dove in and swam along the trench a bit further, taking advantage of his lighter weight in the water. He heard shouts behind him, but didn't dare stop to see how many followed.

He swam a good distance under water, hoping to throw them off a bit in the darkness, and climbed out of the trench back toward the barbed wire field. Curses from his left confirmed that some soldiers had tried to head him off on the other bank, expecting him to continue his course as the other recruit had done. He ran between field and trench, using them to protect his flanks from any other pursuit. A quick glance showed him that three still remained on his tail, roughly ten meters behind.

Harry knew that he couldn't just keep running and hope they would give up. He had two options: hide, or fight. Had he been wearing his combats, he could try to lose them among the barbed wire, but he'd have to be an idiot to chance it with bare feet. Up ahead, a lone, squat building sat on the far corner of the field. Harry sped towards it. If it was open, he could barricade himself in until the hunt was called off; the man in the bunkhouse had named oh-five-hundred hours as the time limit.

Unfortunately, he wasn't the only one with this idea.

As he neared the building, another recruit flew out of a trench on the far side, followed by another four soldiers close on his heels. Harry reached the building first, but realized at a closer look that none of the windows had glass; they were no better than holes in the walls, leaving no way to block anyone from coming in after him. So, changing course, he jumped onto an open window ledge, leapt up and grabbed the edge of the roof, pulling himself up and over.

Immediately he crouched low, spun around and kicked in the face of the first man who came up after him. He fell back with a satisfying crunch. On the other side of the roof, his fellow bunker managed to pull himself up as well, with a slight scuffle on the way and a curse from below. Harry vaguely recognized him as the quiet, brown-haired kid whom Harry had seen writing in his journal before lights-out.

"Behind you!" the kid yelled, and Harry turned just as a hand grabbed onto his ankle and yanked. As he fell, he shot out with his foot, but the man dodged and pulled himself up the rest of the way onto the roof. Harry's punch to his midsection was blocked; the man took hold of his arm and tried to propel him off the edge, but Harry twisted around and reversed the grip, using his low position to pull the man over his head as he rolled back and kicked out with his legs for extra leverage. His body made a loud splash as he hit the muddy ground below.

It was a short victory, for the other five soldiers had used the distraction to climb up on two other sides of the building. One came up behind the brown-haired kid as he fought with another, and grabbed him in a head-lock for his opponent to take out with several jabs to the head and midsection. The other three surrounded Harry.

"You goin' down, fem," growled the one on the right. Blood still dripped from his nose where Harry had kicked him before.

Harry cursed himself for being distracted as the one on his left took the chance to sweep his legs out from under him. Instead of rolling away, though, he rolled upwards into a handstand, scissored his legs around the man's neck and pulled him headfirst to the ground on his right. Releasing the chokehold, he kicked the man in the jaw to knock him out and rocked onto his feet to face the woman, who came at him with fists flying. He blocked her attacks, getting in a good right hook before Bloody-nose came up behind him and put him in a bear hug. He tried to lift his arms and drop, but the man's grip was too strong; he simply lifted Harry off his feet. He wriggled around like a fish, trying to breath through the crushing weight on his lungs. The woman got in a few jabs to his cheek before he recovered himself enough to kick out at her and drive her off.

"Careful there, Mona," a voice drawled. Two more men had climbed up the wall as Harry was fighting, and were crowding around them along with the two who had taken out Harry's bunkmate. Now there were six, with another still down, eyeing Harry in varying degrees of anger and glee. He recognized the pony-tailed man as the one who had spoken. He grinned at Harry in amusement as he struggled.

Harry's hand found the handle of a knife on Bloody-nose's belt, and he didn't hesitate. With a flick of his wrist, the knife was imbedded in the man's thigh; he released Harry with a surprised "Fuck!" and Harry dove off the side of the building behind him.

His shoulder hit the mud with a wet squelch and he rolled several times before coming to his feet and starting to run once more. Exhaustion was catching up with him, however, and he had only run a few meters before he was tackled to the ground by two soldiers. They rolled; Harry fought like an animal as they were joined by a third. He managed to crack something with his foot and heard a howl in his ear when two of the men finally pulled his arms behind his back and stood him up between them. His heart pounded in his ears as he fought to catch his breath. From the sound of it, they were no better.

The others had caught up, and seemed to be looking to Pony-tail for a signal. The woman he had fought earlier was being held back by two others. "You're dead meat, you fucker," she growled.

Pony-tail chuckled. "Fem's got spit," he said, sauntering forward to stand in front of Harry. "Gotta give him that."

"Mutherfucker stabbed Tango," she protested.

"Tango should have been watching his knife," Harry countered.

Pony-tail laughed at that. "Fem's got a point," he said, grinning at Harry with those cold eyes. "But you stabbed one o' our own. That a bad idea, fem. Now we ain't just playin' with you, we pissed off at you."

Harry snorted. "I thought the whole point was to fight back."

"Naw, fem," he said, leaning closer, "the point is teach you exactly what you be for the next three months of your shitty life. Fem. Know what that stands for?"

Harry narrowed his eyes, tensing.

The smile dropped, leaving Pony-tail with a cold, serious expression. "Fresh-fucking-meat," he said. Faster than he could react, Pony-tail drove a hard fist into Harry's gut, doubling him over as his captors released him and the free-for-all began.

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A/N: I'd really like to know how this story is being received. Praise, criticism, corrections, questions, suggestions, and generally any comments you have will help inspire me to write better and faster. If no one reviews, then I'll assume that you guys don't like the story, and there won't be a point to continuing.

Not that I'm a review whore or anything. ;)

The next chapter should be up within two weeks.

RT


	3. Strange Bedfellows

Disclaimer: Training in the British army in this story takes place far, far away in the dubious reality of RT's mind and has a

Disclaimer: Training in the British army in this story takes place far, far away in the dubious reality of RT's mind and has absolutely no basis in fact, which will be obvious to anyone reading this who has actually been through such training (by the way, if you have, I'd love your help to make this more realistic).

Also, while some British slang may find its way into this story, most will be American or made up. Sorry. If you come accross something particularly strange for a character to say, please let me know and I'll see if I can change it.

Any characters you recognize belong to JK Rowling. Story title belongs to TS Eliot.

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**Chapter 2**

**Strange Bedfellows**

Harry limped back to his bunkhouse, holding his side gingerly. He was one of only two recruits who had spent their entire first day in the infirmary, first getting bandaged up, then being forced to stay for a partial physical while he was there. The other recruit, a woman from a different unit, had a broken leg and would not be released for a few days yet. It appeared that Harry's bunkhouse was not the only one raided that night.

The head nurse, a gray-haired, bespectacled woman named Greta, spent the entire time tisking over "barbarian rituals" and shooting nasty glances at the few soldiers that came to see her with various wounds, including a broken wrist and a stabbing ("fell on his knife, honestly"). Harry was surprised to find that Tango didn't seem to hold anything against him for the stabbing; but the Indian woman, Mona, still glared at him when she came by to visit with her friend.

The bunkhouse was empty when he reached it. Harry assumed that the rest of his unit was either still at dinner, or trying out the recreation room. He didn't really care. He sank down gently onto his bed and buried his head into the pillow.

He wondered if this was what life as a soldier would be like: treated like scum, bullied by those above him, getting the shit kicked out of him by his own comrades—never mind the enemy. He had enlisted because it was the only career that made sense to him; even with amnesia, he still retained the instincts and reflexes that told him he was a fighter. He felt at home on the mat, facing down an opponent, alive in the rush of adrenaline. That, along with what his group-home mother called his "helping people thing," had led him to make the split-decision to sign up when his social worker had showed him the army pamphlet.

Of course, he had also failed miserably on his GCSE exams, which didn't give him many career options. He was so far behind in all of the subjects that he felt like he'd been raised in the Stone Age. He didn't even know how to use a computer. His doctor blamed it on 'selective amnesia,' but Harry didn't even feel that familiar deja-vu that he usually got when relearning things he had known before, like his name. It was lucky that he had a note addressed to him in his pocket when he was found, or he wouldn't even know that.

The note was one of the few links he had to anyone in his past. Unfortunately, it didn't say much.

_Harry,_

_Lion takes serpent._

_D_

He wished the writer had left more than a letter for a name. The message was cryptic, probably just a stupid joke, but the script was neat and cursive, and the paper unlike anything he could find at the store. Something about it felt like a treasure that he should keep not just as a link to his past, but as something of worth on its own. He kept it with him, neatly pressed out in a pocket of his notebook so it wouldn't get bent.

The door opened behind him, admitting exhausted voices, muttered jokes and muted laughter as recruits filed in. "Oy, it's the spitfire," said a woman's voice, and a hand ruffled his hair. Harry batted it away and glared at the dimpled woman above him. She grinned cheekily at him. "Heard you cut off Private Tango's balls last night," she said.

Someone groaned. "Chica, you obsessed with balls."

"You can have my balls, sweetie."

"Shut your wad, Spikey, you couldn't find your own asshole with a map."

The woman rolled her eyes in annoyance and invited herself to sit on Harry's bed. She was small, with red and blond dyed hair and sharp, pointy features. "Name's Sarah Harper," she said, "but you can call me Scarlet."

"Harry," he said, reluctantly sitting up.

"What, no last name? Like Madonna?"

Harry really didn't like giving out the name that the police force had christened him with. It felt like he was betraying whatever family he had lost somehow. "Smith," he said. "Harry Smith."

She flashed her dimples. "Nice to meet ya, Harry Smith."

"Shaun Sandstone," said the American in the next bunk, as he finished sticking a paperclip through his eyebrow. He had short black hair gelled into spikes and another paperclip dangling from his ear. "Scarlet's my bitch."

"Go fuck your mother, Spikey" she said.

"I'm savin' it all for you, baby."

She looked at his crotch. "Not much to save," she said. The others crowed with laughter.

"Hey, Chica, you want a big man?" one called, grabbing himself. "Ladies call me Anaconda."

She gave him the finger. "Oh yes, give it to me, birdie," he catcalled.

Harry drifted away from the conversation, wishing Scarlet would get off his bed. For some reason he felt a strong desire to take out his notebook and read D's letter again.

While the second unnamed woman was pulled into the sexual banter, Harry spotted the quiet, brown-haired kid he had fought beside last night sitting on his bunk with a book open, holding his ribs. When he noticed Harry's eyes on him, he blushed but stared back defiantly. "How's your side?" Harry asked.

The kid shrugged and winced. "All right. Better than yours, I'd wager."

Scarlet heard them and butted in. "I've got a lovely gash on my arm from last night. Fourteen stitches. The nurse said it'll probably scar."

"Hey, look at this," said the one who called himself Anaconda, lifting up his pant leg to reveal a long swath of gauze over bronze skin. "Seventeen stiches, barbed wire."

"Mmm, thow us that leg, femmy," lisped the American, to a chorus of snorting laughter.

Harry noticed the brown-haired kid blushing behind his book.

"Whatchoo lookin' at, bitch?" Anaconda frowned.

"Fresh fucking meat," the blond woman laughed.

"Woman, shut up."

Harry turned to Scarlet curiously. "Why are you so…?" he trailed off, gesturing to her bandaged arm.

"What?"

"…Proud of getting hurt?"

She looked surprised. "We survived the gauntlet," she said, as if that explained everything.

He raised his eyebrow.

"It's a rite of passage. You know what that is, right?" she smirked.

"Getting the shit kicked out of us is a rite of passage?" he asked skeptically.

She shrugged. "Well, you're not actually supposed to fight back, y' know. You run, they catch you, they toss you around a bit, and it's done. The more you fight back, the more bruises they give you. They're just showing us the pecking order, that's all."

Harry frowned, doubtful. The soldiers he'd faced didn't seem intent on letting him go with a slap on the wrist. "So we were just supposed to lie down and take it?"

"No, man, that's for chickenshits like Spikey over there," Anaconda answered. "He tripped himself up right outside the door just to get it over with faster."

"I didn't do it on purpose, asshole," said Sandstone.

"Bet you laid there with your hands over your head crying for mummy," said Anaconda.

"Fuck you, _Annie_."

Scarlet leaned over to Harry and said, "Look, the more you fight back, the more they hit you, right, but the more they respect you too, cause you know the odds are against you but you don't back down. Get it?"

He didn't, really, but he figured these people were crazy anyways.

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With only ten weeks to train, classes for the recruits were intense, and Harry didn't know which hurt worse at the end of each day: his head or his writing hand.

They were issued SA80 rifles for class-use only on the first day, but the arms and ammunitions instructor, Staff Sergeant Dyer, told the recruits (to a small chorus of moans) that they would have to learn to understand and respect every part of a weapon before he'd let them anywhere near a shooting range. Map reading and field tactics made Harry's head feel like a mass of stretched rubber bands, and the instructor for bio-warfare survival training made everyone so jumpy they were afraid to touch their pencils without permission.

The only part of the day that Harry looked forward to was physical fitness training, and that was grueling enough on its own. Especially for the first few days, when Harry's ribs were still tender and the bruises still a dark purplish black. By the time his classes began in the morning, he was so relieved at first to finally sit down that he barely retained any of the lectures. All he could focus on was the minute hand of the overhead clock creeping in stuttered jerks on its axis, ticking off the hour between him and Nurse Greta's miracle pills.

Thankfully, the obstacle course was off limits for the first week; in the mean time, afternoon physical fitness classes focused on weight training and cardio. The quiet journal-writer of Harry's unit, whose name he learned at roll call was Billy Wickes, gravitated toward him in PF training and became his unofficial partner in all of their exercises. He still didn't say much, which was fine with Harry.

In their free time, Harry's unit flocked together in the Rec: a loud, crowded room that made Harry feel claustrophobic whenever his unit dragged him there to watch the telly or play ping pong or humiliate himself on the Street Fighter arcade game.

"Man, you got shitty hand-eye coordination," Munez told him on their fourth day, as his bikini-clad character did victory high-kicks for the fifth time in a row. "You can't just keep punching the buttons like that. You gotta have strategy."

Harry surrendered the game controls to Sandstone. "Right, well, I didn't grow up in an arcade. See how far pushing buttons gets you on the field, Annie." Ever since Munez had called himself Anaconda that second night, the nickname had stuck. He was shaved bald and built like a wall with an ego to match.

"Put me in a cockpit and I'll show you, Smith," he said.

"Cockpit? You goin' for wings, then?" asked Sandstone, flipping through the character options on the screen.

"Hell, yes. Here, take a look." Munez pulled out a carton of cigarettes from his back pocket and tossed it to Harry as the game started up again.

Inside the carton was a folded magazine clipping; Harry took it out and unfolded a picture of a gunned-up helicopter.

"That's my baby," said Munez, fingers flying over the controls. "The Boeing AH-64A Apache love-machine. Laser-guided hellfire missiles, 70mm rockets, and a 30mm automatic cannon with up to 1200 high-explosive, dual-purpose ammunition rounds."

Sandstone looked impressed. "You memorize the manual or what?"

"Man, I could fly her right now if they'd give me one."

"How 'bout you, Smith, what you goin' for?"

Harry shrugged. "Infantry. You?"

"Same. I know Scarlet's in with us too, same's her daddy," he said, pounding rapid-fire on the game controls. "How 'bout that other kid, what's-his-name?"

"Wickes?" Harry supplied.

"Right, the quiet kid. You partnered him in gym, right? You know what he's in for?"

"Not a clue."

"He ever talk?"

Harry shrugged. "Not really."

"Ah, fuck!" Sandstone kicked the machine.

"Hah, you suck dick at this too, Spikey," Munez grinned.

"Best two outta three."

"You're on."

Harry leaned back on the stool behind him and looked over at the television on the other side of the room. Captions scrolled over a BBC news interview with a Yorkshire police chief. Every few minutes the camera cut to shots of smokey streets and distraught civilians being checked over by ambulance crews.

Sadly, it wasn't an uncommon sight in the current war. Over the past year or so, home security had all but locked the country down, but the terrorists just got bolder. It seemed like every other week another bus exploded, or a train derailed, or a bridge just up and collapsed during rush hour traffic. People had gotten to the point where they'd begun hounding Parliament members on their way into the office, demanding a resolution.

Some crazies had even suggested shipping all foreigners out of the country altogether and declaring martial law. Luckily, nobody took them seriously.

"'Lo, fem."

Harry spun around. Ponytail blew a cloud of cigarette smoke by his face, sending Harry into coughs.

The blond man flashed his dimples. "Whoops, sorry 'bout that," he said, his eyes telling a different story.

Before Harry could recover, the man drifted away towards the television, where the soldiers sprawled in folding chairs greeted him with familiar indifference. He said something that Harry didn't catch and a few barked in laughter.

When Sandstone and Munez were about to begin their next game (and Sandstone had finished kicking and cursing at the console), Harry tapped Munez on the shoulder and asked him if he knew who the pony-tailed man was.

"That's Lieutenant Lazuli," said Sandstone. "He's on leave."

"How the fuck you know that?" asked Munez.

"Scarlet told me."

"How the fuck she know that?"

Sandstone shrugged. "Army brat," he said simply.

"Did she tell you anything else on him?" asked Harry.

"I look like a fuckin' old lady to you, Smith? I don't do gossip." He looked around and bent in close. "Tell you what, though," he said. "He ain't on no vacation. Took a forced fuckin' leave. Y'know why?"

Harry raised his eyebrow.

"Lost his head on the field," the American said. "Went after some terrorist ass without the okay, killed 'bout a dozen o' the fuckers, but he blew up his Captain's fuckin' Rover too," he laughed. "Captain was so pissed off 'bout his wheels he sent the whole fuckin' unit back here to push papers for a month."

Munez snorted. "Man's loco," he said. "Lucky he didn't get shot by his own men."

"I wouldn't say that too loud, if I was you."

"What's that I smell?" Munez sniffed. "You pissin' your pants, Spikey?"

Sandstone flushed. "All right, go say it to his fuckin' face, then, bitch. Should be fun to watch him pound your face in."

Harry tensed worriedly as the atmosphere between them shifted with the challenge. "Don't be stupid," he told them. So easily were the two at each other's throats.

Unfortunately, Munez had already picked up the bone. "That sounds like a dare," he said, taking out a cigarette. "You owe me a pack o' smokes for this, Spikey. Marlboro. None o' that light shit, either," he added, shoving past Sandstone toward the TV crowd. Belatedly, Harry realized just whom Munez was about to confront, and felt torn between wanting to stay and back him up and wanting to disappear out the nearest exit.

Sandstone shook his head, watching. "Fuckin' idiot," he muttered.

Munez had weaseled his way to a seat right behind Lazuli, who glanced back at him, listening to whatever the Spanish recruit was saying. After a moment, he shrugged and turned away, reaching into his pocket.

"Fuck, what's he doing?" said Sandstone, sidling toward Harry.

The blond soldier turned back around, holding…a lighter. Munez leaned close, lighting up his cigarette.

Sandstone let out a little laugh. "Fuckin' idiot," he repeated.

Harry watched Lazuli's face as the two spoke. On the outside, he seemed normal enough…Harry couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was about the man that made him uncomfortable. Maybe it was just the man's ability to smile with such cold eyes…even when he laughed, that loud, bark of a laugh, his eyes were sizing you up, breaking you down.

It felt foreign to Harry. Foreign and far too familiar.

Even as he thought it, the man laughed uproariously, as well as several of the soldiers around him. He smacked Munez on the shoulder, then leaned in and spoke into his ear. When he was done, he leaned back, clipped him again, and turned back to the TV in obvious dismissal. Munez sauntered back across the room towards Sandstone and Harry, smirking.

The Spanish recruit put his arms out in a 'let me have it' gesture. "Well?" he said as he reached them.

"Well what?" asked Sandstone.

"Come on, say it. What's my name?"

Harry was just as puzzled as his American counterpart.

"Idiot? Fuckin' loco?" Sandstone guessed.

"Anaconda. Come on, you can say it."

The other rolled his eyes and said grudgingly, "All right, all right. Anaconda. There. You're a fuckin' Anaconda. Happy?"

Munez grinned smugly, teeth flashing. "Damn straight."

"So what'd he say?"

He raised his eyebrows in amusement. "I look like an old lady to you, Spikey?" he said, mocking Sandstone's own words from earlier. "Ask him yourself."

Harry snorted at the look on the American's face. He was just as curious, but he wasn't about to initiate a conversation with the man either. More laughter came from the group around the tele. No, he thought, he'd be happy enough letting that sleeping dog lie.

xxxxxxxx

A/N: I apologize for the long wait on this chapter. I had to do some research for it, and I ended up rewriting it a few times. I wanted to make it longer to make up for the delay, but that would have just taken even more time. It was hard enough just getting this much out.

PLEASE REVIEW!

Thanks,

RT


	4. Let Solid Be the Walls

**Chapter 3**

**"Let solid be the walls**

**to wrap around your dreams"**

--_Stevie Nicks_

Harry jerked awake in a sweat. His eyes searched the darkness, panting, seeing nothing but shadows on the bunks around him and a sliver of moonlight across the ceiling. Nothing strange. Nothing moving.

Nothing but the walls, closing in.

Silently Harry slid out of bed and across the small room. The unlocked door always surprised something in him, though it shouldn't. This door never locked. He padded down the hall to the washroom and let himself in. Left the door open. Turned on the taps.

The water cooled his nausea and his head. His own hands in his hair, no one else's. Water dripped from his nose and chin. Calm. Calmer. No one else here.

Everything was fine.

His dream had gone further, this time. It was snowing again, but somehow he was warm, standing under a darkened midday sky, searching for someone. There were people running in the streets. He thought they might have been running from him.

He remembered admiring the ash-like flakes, knowing how they would burn the skin if touched. And it did; the people (Muggles, he had thought, though the childish word jarred discordantly) dropped like flies, grabbing at their throats, some covering their children. Some climbing beneath others to escape it. One man held his own son's body over his head as a shield.

Their eyes bulged. Clawing. Bleeding. Screaming.

Then quiet. A fresh wind blew the snow into dancing eddies around the still bodies, lifted their hair, played with it, and let the world settle into new patterns.

Usually, the dream would have ended around here, with Harry waking up in a cold panic, nauseous at his own imaginings. For the past week, this had been the pattern.

This time, the dream coiled into raw, naked darkness.

And hands. Cold hands in the dark. Stone bit into his skin on one side, while finger and tongue and tooth devoured him on the other. On every inch a fingerprint. Every breath loud in his ears. No thoughts. There were no words for this.

Harry shuddered in a breath and let the cold bite his lungs. It was just a dream, he thought. Not real. Never real.

He truly had the sickest imagination.

The running water soothed him, drawing his mind away from the immediacy of the crowded dark in his mind. He splashed his face again, rubbing the feeling of ghostly fingerprints out of his skin.

Everything was fine.

xxxxxxxx

"Ready. Aim. Fire!"

A cacophony of bullets ripped through the line of human-shaped targets on the grassy field. Harry settled his rifle back into his shoulder, ready for the next round. Behind him, Sergeant Dyer paced along the row of recruits, pausing to correct Sandstone's grip before moving on. Sandstone rolled his eyes at Harry and took aim again.

"Ready. Aim. Fire!"

Harry's target died another swift and painless death. Sandstone's target lost a hand.

"Ha! Gotcha this time, you bugger!" he yelled. Harry barely heard him through the protective headgear.

Today their unit was practicing sniper shots, at a distance of one hundred yards. It was a difficult assignment for any soldier; so far, Harry had been the only one to hit his target at every round. He didn't know why it came so easily to him. It seemed like all he had to do was concentrate on the target, and let his instincts take over.

He liked it when he didn't have to think.

"Ready. Aim. Fire!"

"Fuck!" exclaimed Sandstone. "How the hell do you do that?!"

Harry shrugged carefully.

After two more rounds, the Staff Sergeant called them in and went over their results. Unsurprisingly, Billy Wickes was the only recruit whose target was nearly as decimated as Harry's. The two of them were congratulated, while the others were directed to put their free time to good use on the range if they didn't want their asses handed to them on the field.

"Like I'm givin' up free time to play double-oh-seven with you two freaks," said Sandstone, as they headed toward the bunkhouse and its showers to wash off the sweat and grime. He walked ahead with Munez, with Harry slightly behind, followed by the two women and Wickes.

It wasn't really a point of contention among them; after five weeks of training together, Harry and Wickes were accepted as the two sharpshooters of the group. Sandstone and the blond woman, Madison, were still somewhat sore about it, but not nearly as much as they had been when Harry and Wickes had first wiped the floor with them on the shooting range. Now they joked about the two 'silent but deadly' members of their unit and chalked it up to being part of their weirdness.

Ahead, two uniforms leaned against a wall, smoking. Harry recognized the blond ponytail right away.

Sandstone elbowed Munez. "There's your pal Lazuli," he said.

"Want us to hold your hand, Spikey?"

Madison hummed. "I'd like to hold more than _his_ hand," she said, referring to the Lieutenant.

"He's all right," Scarlet said. "If you like the hot-cold, psychopathic type."

"I bet he's a wild card in the bedroom."

"You like it rough, Chica?" Munez leered. "Hey, he's lookin' this way. Maybe tonight's your lucky night."

As Harry's unit neared the building, Lazuli waved away his companion and squinted their way.

"Harper."

Scarlet slowed to a stop. "Sir?"

Lazuli dropped his stub and ground it out. "Sergeant Walker wants to see you."

Her nostrils flared, but she nodded perfunctorily and stalked off in the opposite direction.

"Wonder what that's about," Harry muttered to Wickes, who shrugged.

Sandstone eyed the lieutenant as though itching to ask, but one look had him turning around. "Come on, let's clean up," he said to a smirking Munez. "I'm starving."

Harry went to follow with the others, when Lazuli called out again.

"Hey, Smith."

Harry slowed reluctantly and let his unit pass him. Over Lazuli's shoulder, he saw Madison start to walk backwards while blowing him kisses. Obviously nuts.

"Sir," he acknowledged.

"Couple things," Lazuli said. "First off, Sergeant wants to see you too."

"You his secretary?"

The man grinned wickedly. "Nah, fem. I don't bottom."

Harry didn't know what to say to that. He shifted uncomfortably, eyeing the last of his unit as they turned a corner.

"Saw you on the field," the blond said. "You play with guns at home?"

"No, never had one."

"You're takin' the piss."

Harry shrugged.

"You a natural shot, kid."

"Erm…thanks." He looked in the direction that Scarlet had disappeared into. "So…was there something else?"

Lazuli stuck his hands in his pockets, teeth flashing. "You cute when you squirm."

Harry glared at him.

"Free day tomorrow," he said.

"So?"

"You hittin' the pubs with your boyfriends?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. "I don't see how it's your business. Sir."

"I'm just sayin'," he said, shrugging. "Twigs always get sucked in to Water Street first. Nothin' but shiny lights and strip joints. That where you goin'?"

"Dunno. Guess we'll see."

"Takin' the first bus out?"

Harry shrugged.

Lazuli flashed a dimple. "You should come with me. I'll show you the better cheek."

"The better cheek?"

"You know, of the pimply backside that is Waterford."

"Rather not, thanks."

Lazuli considered him for a moment, then flicked his cigarette and squinted past him. "Suit yourself," he said. He dismissed Harry with a curt nod. "Sergeant's waiting."

xxxxxxxx

Harry really should have known better.

He should have expected the blond shadow on the Rec bus. He should have known that Anaconda's idea of the "best meat in town" had nothing to do with food. He should have known the others would be okay with that because really, even Scarlet was as bad as a drunken sailor around the rest of the unit.

And in fact, he _had_ known better, but the tickets for the Heartland Pride concert in the city tonight were sold out, and had been for the past six months.

"Hey, Smith, come dance with me!" Scarlet yelled into his ear. She was close enough that he could smell the fruity Cosmo on her breath, but still he barely heard her over the thumpa-thumpa beat and teeth-jarring vocals vomiting out from the club's loud speakers.

He shook his arm from her grip, shaking his head. Lazuli laughed at him from the next table. The man had 'happened' to show up at Club X about half an hour after Harry's unit arrived, and proceeded to invite himself and his small herd of cohorts to join them.

Anaconda drifted over for a mouthful of lager before Scarlet clamped onto him and dragged him right back out to the dance floor. Sandstone and Madison were grinding into their own fresh meat nearby, leaving Wilkes and Harry the only ones at their table.

Lazuli kicked out a chair and moved himself next to Harry, where he could speak directly into the recruit's ear. "Don't dance, don't drink, don't smoke"–he tapped his cigarette into Harry's water—"you a virgin too, kid?"

Harry scowled and flicked him off, but the lieutenant just laughed. "You should loosen up," he said. "Might be your last free day for months."

Harry wasn't going to ask how he knew that. The day before, Sergeant Walker had given Harry the order that he was to ship out in less than two weeks. Normally, it would have gone against protocol to promote a recruit so quickly to the field, but the war was accelerating and they needed sharpshooters on the streets. Harry just had to pass a psych evaluation and he was good to go.

As long as he kept his sleeping habits to himself, of course.

He tried to catch Wickes's eye to change the conversation, but the boy had his eyes on the bodies out on the dance floor. Lazuli kept pushing. "At least get some tail before you go," he shouted.

"Why don't you go pester your friends," Harry finally said, face getting hot. "Leave me the fuck alone."

"Aw, ain't you cute when you blush," Lazuli drawled in his ear.

Harry's breath constricted. He lifted his glass to take a drink and balked at the last minute, seeing the ashes floating in the water. Annoyed, he slammed the glass down and pushed away from the table. "I'm going out for some air!" he shouted to Wickes. The boy blinked at him and nodded. Lazuli just leaned back in his seat, suddenly indifferent as he turned to watch the dancers.

Harry pushed his way through the pulsing crowd, skirting hands and too-long glances. He hated the feel of their bodies around him, the suffocating sound and touch and movement filling every breath of space. He dodged and slid and choked his way to the front doors, passed the bored-looking bouncers, and pushed out into the open night air.

Even here, a line of people crowded the sidewalk, waiting to get in. Harry drifted to the side and leaned against the wall. For a long moment, he took in the traffic and city lights and just _breathed_.

Several blocks down the street, the flood-lights of the Waterford coliseum blazed a path to the clouds. This was as close as he would come to the Heartland Pride concert, where the crowds would at least be more than half-dressed and the music distinguishable from sound and drums. Several of the ranking officers would be there tonight. Several celebrities, too. It was supposed to be broadcasted across the country, as a fundraiser for the war on terrorism.

Who was he kidding? It still would have been too crowded. Even more than the club. Harry shivered.

He didn't know what was going on with himself, lately. Being around other people had never been such a problem; back at home, his foster brothers had often dragged him out to pubs for a laugh. He never did like the taste of alcohol or the smell of cigarette smoke, but he got by. Even the smell of sweat was just a part of the general atmosphere, nothing to worry about.

He knew it had to do with his dreams.

There were other things, too. Weird things. Like the time he'd been puffing through his last lap of a grueling PT run and suddenly couldn't feel the ache in his side anymore—suddenly felt like he could go for another ten miles without tiring. Or like the time when his arm had twitched during shooting practice, and the bullet still managed to hit center target. He knew it should have missed. The rifle had moved before he pulled the trigger; he knew it had. But it hadn't mattered. Dead center. Every time.

Sometimes he'd aimed his gun and it felt wrong in his hands, like it should have been smaller, thinner, lighter. Like it should have shot something other than bullets.

Harry laughed bitterly at himself. Other than bullets? Like what, lasers? Maybe he really had been a Star Trek junkie in his last life.

He hoped the shrink didn't dig too hard. If the higher-ups knew what really went through his head, they'd probably stick him in a white jacket. Forget the cavalry.

Shouting drew his eyes toward the door of the club, where a young drag queen was loudly demanding entrance. She waved her fake ID in front of the bouncer's face, but he wasn't buying it. "I waited three hours in that line, do you understand? I am _not_ going to stand aside—"

"Go home, kid."

"Where's you're supervisor? I _demand_—"

Harry glanced away, just as the sky lit up in a brilliant flash.

BOOM!

"What the fuck was that?!"

"Holy shit!"

For one breathless moment, Harry watched the cloud of smoke balloon outward from the base of the coliseum. Then, in terrible slow motion, the walls facing the street started to cave.

"Oh my god—"

"Quick, take a picture—"

BO-BOOM!

The ground shook with the force of the explosions. Harry fell back into the wall, unable to believe his eyes. A wall of dust obscured his sight of the coliseum. It rolled down the street like a charging dragon.

"Everyone get inside! Now!" someone yelled. The crowd had spilled over the street, watching, running, frozen and screaming. The smarter ones had realized where that dust was headed.

Harry broke away from the wall. "Hey, where the fuck are you going?!" a man shouted after him, but he didn't stop. He didn't think he could have if he'd tried.

He took a deep breath and plunged into the cloud.

Darkness. Suffocating, eye-watering black. Harry coughed and choked, holding his arm in front of him. He had to stop when he hit a parked car. Where the hell was the coliseum?

Harry started forward again, only to find a brick wall. He kicked it, frustrated. He had to get to the coliseum! He had to get there _now_—

Suddenly, the air picked him up in a vice and _squeezed_—

--and tossed him to the ground in a pile of rubble.

Harry coughed and stared. Somebody had let off fireworks; dust swirled around him under a glowing green sky. It mocked the night in the shape of a skull.

"Hey, are you all right?" a man called. Harry turned around to see a man (Muggle, part of him thought, relieved) stumble toward him, painted gray head-to-foot with dust. Blood matted his head and arm. "Fuck, I thought I was the only one left! You all right?"

The man's eyes were glazed; Harry could tell that he wasn't all there. "I'm fine," he said.

"You all right?" the man asked again. "Have you seen my wife? She was just here…" He squinted into the dust around them, stumbling off again.

Harry's chest constricted. About twenty yards away, he barely made out a wall of rubble that was once the entrance to the coliseum. He could tell from its signature giant eagle statue, the head of which had rolled onto its side at the base.

The silence was deafening.

What had he come here for? There was no way in—not that anyone could have survived this—what could he possibly do to help?

He picked his way toward the eagle's head. Maybe, if he climbed far enough, he could find an opening…

There—

A flash of black.

Yellow light reflected off the broken glass in the rubble. A man's surprised shout. Harry turned, every cell inexplicably on alert.

Another flash.

He ran.

Around a boulder that used to be part of the roofing, Harry stumbled into a scene directly from a science fiction movie. Not ten yards away, the man who had come across him earlier lay in a writhing mass of blood and bone. His throat made horrible gurgling noises.

Standing over him, a black-robed figure pointed at him with a stick, looking now at Harry. Lank brown hair framed a face that could have belonged to any average Brit, except for the childishly delighted look in his eyes.

Green light flashed from the stick. The gurgling stopped.

"What the fuck—" Harry had no words beyond this. Hell, _reality_ was beyond this.

The man in black sneered like some comic book villain and pointed his stick at Harry. Harry ducked instinctively just as another flash of light, yellow again, heated the air by his head. He dove behind a slab of concrete.

The man laughed. "Come out, come out, wherever you are," he sing-songed. Glass crunched under his feet.

Harry closed his eyes. He was going to be sick. He was going to scream. He was going to wake up.

Stone skittered along the cement beside him before the man came into view.

Harry was upon him before he even thought to move.

The stick went flying. They rolled and grappled over sharp and unforgiving ground. Harry punched every part of the man he could reach, sometimes crashing his fist into flesh, sometimes into the concrete rubble. It didn't matter. All he could feel was the anger, the fear, the need to wipe this thing from existence…soon, the other man's attempts to fight back became a desperate reaching for the stick laying innocuously several yards away; profanity turned to pleas; still Harry attacked him, now beating the monster's head into the ground with the overwhelming notion that, if he just hit hard enough, the dream would end…all dreams would end, and the world would turn right again…

Something crashed into his side, throwing him away from the bleeding mess in black. Harry went to dive back toward him, not knowing why but needing to _end_ it, and found himself frozen in place. He couldn't even move his eyes.

Another figure knelt before him. He saw a black robe, stirring the anger again, before the man's pale face lowered into his sight.

Gray eyes. Eyes so full of emotion they pierced right to Harry's heart.

He had an inexplicable urge to touch the cloud-white hair that stuck to the man's sweaty temples.

Harry _knew_ this man.

And the man obviously knew him. Slowly, shakily, he reached out as if Harry were the dream, and the pale man the dreamer. His hand hovered over Harry's arm.

Time seemed to stop. Each remained frozen, one unable to move, one unwilling; both, perhaps, aware that a simple touch could shift the world off its axis and send it spinning into unchartered waters, never to return again.

Harry held his breath.

A finger descended.

The earth shattered to pieces.

***

A/N: Yes, I'm still here. Yes, the story has been put on life-support and the doctors are wringing their hands in befuddlement. I saved this out from under their noses. I don't know how soon I can break into the hospital room again.

As it turned out, I've moved to a military town. Go figure. The other night, I spotted a woman in fatigues crawling on her friend's car hood in a drunken high while the friend revved the engine and tried to throw her off. So yes, they really are crazy.


	5. A Heap of Broken Images

**Chapter 4**

**A Heap of Broken Images**

--from "The Wasteland," by T.S. Eliot

_The earth shattered to pieces._

Harry's body smacked into the ground beneath him, chin-first. Blood filled his mouth from his bitten tongue.

"Put your hands up where I can see them! Now!"

Colors danced across his vision; snatches of voices seemed to come to him from under water. In one moment, Harry lay with a throbbing jaw looking blankly at the muzzles of four or five guns aimed at his head—

but one blink later, the cold dark of his dreams filled his vision…a metallic scent, a ringing in his ears that spoke of long silences…unyielding stone against his skin…

A booted foot kicked him over onto his back…the wide-eyed soldier's rifle shook…

…like the wand-arm of a young gray-eyed blond, shouting at Harry from the bottom of a stone stairwell that it was _all his fault_—

"Chambers, call a medic…secure the target, damn it!"

…hands were holding him down…a cup shoved against his teeth, burning liquid choking him, spilling down his neck…someone laughed in his ear…

"He's convulsing—hold him!"

Bodies crowded in on his sight—Harry turned his head and strained to see past them. There, a black figure on the ground…pale blond smeared with red…Harry twitched his hand outward. "No…"

A sharp jab into his arm was the last he knew.

***

"'Morning, Sunshine."

Harry blinked through the light stabbing his eyes and groaned. The cot squeaked as he pushed off the scratchy sheet that held him down and sat up. He squinted blearily. A uniformed soldier came into focus, as he shut the door of the…cell?...behind him.

Lazuli folded his arms and leaned back against the wall. He studied Harry with cold, sharp eyes.

"What's going on?" Harry croaked, mouth dry from sleep. He shifted uncomfortably; it was difficult to ignore how close the walls were in such a small space. He didn't like how the other's presence stifled him even more than the walls did. His arms itched.

For once, Lazuli wasn't smirking. "What do you remember?" he countered.

Harry let his gaze wander. A metal sink distorted his reflection. "An explosion…the coliseum." He looked back at the other soldier. "Were there any survivors?"

Lazuli stared at him. The silence stretched. Finally, he took out a cigarette. "No."

Harry's breath left him. He grimaced at the smell of smoke. "How many?" _Dead._

"Does it matter?"

Harry looked away. "I suppose not."

"Sergeant Walker's dead."

"I'm sorry."

Lazuli flicked the ashes with a shrug. "Save it for Harper."

"Scarlet?"

"The man was her father."

Harry blinked. "Oh." He remembered someone calling her an army brat. "They have different last names."

"Took her mother's. Cheeky kid."

There was something distinctly odd about discussing his bunkmate with this man. Harry cleared his throat. "So what am I doing here?"

"You remember anything else besides the explosion?"

"Not really."

"Try."

Harry scowled, but he thought back to that night, back to the green-tinted rubble and the tang of ozone in the air. He remembered a man, lost and stumbling, yellow lights, and then—

Harry searched the other cautiously. "Are you sure there were no survivors?"

Lazuli didn't blink.

"It's just…I thought I saw…people."

"Bodies?"

"No. I mean, yes, but—" He stopped himself. _But one was torturing people with laser lights and the other one managed to paralyze me without a stun gun._ What was he saying?

Harry shut his mouth. "Nevermind," he said finally. "Just…shock, I guess." What had the pale one done to him, in the end? And what happened to him after the gunfire—had the man been shot? Was he still alive?

"Right." Lazuli snorted. "Look, it wasn't shock, kid. What you saw."

Harry stared.

"You think I don't know what these bastards look like by now? I know what you're thinking. Thought I was crazy too, the first time." He dropped the cigarette stub and ground it into the cement with his boot. "Feels like a motherfuckin' science fiction movie, right? Black cloaks and lights that can turn your brains inside out. You smashed that one's head in pretty well."

Harry felt sick. "You mean…"

"Not bad for your first engagement. Bit messy, though."

Harry closed his eyes. He was suddenly glad that he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. He licked chapped lips. "What about…the other one? What happened…"

Lazuli gave a slow smile. "That would be classified information."

Harry tried not to look frustrated.

"However…seeing as how we've just upped your clearance, I suppose there's no harm in telling you."

"And?"

"You know I'd have to rip your balls off if word of this gets out."

Harry swallowed. He didn't doubt the man's cold sincerity. He nodded.

Lazuli smirked. "How would you like to meet the bastard?"

"You mean he's here?"

The lieutenant just stared, expectantly.

Harry thought of the man's grey eyes, familiar and strange at once, the feeling that every answer to Harry's questions lay behind them. He stood. "Where?" he asked.

"How bad you wanna see him?"

Harry faltered. "What?"

"Not just anyone is allowed in there, you know. You need special clearance."

"I thought you just said I have it."

He snorted. "Not that much."

"So then—"

"Like I said." Lazuli's eyes wandered down Harry's frame. "How bad you wanna see him?"

Harry flushed with anger and embarrassment. "You have to be kidding. If you think I'm gonna let you—let you—" he stuttered. "Go fuck yourself!"

Lazuli chuckled. "You're really too easy, kid." Harry glared. "Relax. I'm not gonna rape you."

_Oh, good. Now I feel loads better._

The man thumbed his pockets casually. "One kiss," he said.

Harry seethed. "No."

"Don't tell me you've never kissed anyone before."

His ears burned. "Of course I have—I mean I'm not—I don't—"

"In the closet, then?"

"No, I—"

"Good. Then there's nothing to it, is there? Think about it. Just one small kiss, and then you can look the bastard in the eye that killed all those people. Tell you what, I'll even turn a blind eye while you introduce yourself. So long as you don't kill 'im, of course."

"I—" Harry stopped. Was it really such a horrible thing? How important was his pride, next to the possibility of talking to someone who knew about his past? "Will you leave me alone with him?"

Lazuli's eyes shadowed.

"Just for a few minutes," he amended. "Five minutes. You can time me."

The lieutenant considered him. For an awful moment, Harry thought he might back out.

"Five minutes," Lazuli finally said. Then he smiled. "But I'll need a little extra for that."

Before he could protest, Harry suddenly found himself turned around and pushed into the wall, Lazuli's body pushing up against him and teeth biting at his lip. He tried to keep his jaw closed, but then hands found the skin above his belt and a tongue thrust into his mouth. It tasted like cigarettes and candy. His thoughts blanked; it was all he could do to keep his fists at his sides. The hands went higher, calluses rough against his chest…then one swept downward, over his pants, cupping his—

Harry bit down and shoved the man away from him, gasping. "The fuck…that was not…"

The other man rubbed his lips, but his look was smug. "Fem has bite," he remarked.

"You said it was just a kiss!"

"Where I come from, that was a peck on the cheek."

Harry glared. "Bullshit."

Lazuli shrugged. "Believe what you want, kid. Wanna see him or not?"

Harry didn't want to go anywhere with this bastard at the moment, but he nodded sharply.

"Good. Come on." He opened the cell door. "Not that I mind the view," he said, looking back at Harry, "but you might wanna straighten your shirt." He winked.

***

They didn't have to go far.

As it turned out, the military liked to keep its secrets all in the same place. And this place was where they housed those secrets pertaining to the mysterious black figures codenamed "ghosts."

"They're not going to keep me here indefinitely, are they?" Harry asked on their way down the corridor. "Just because I saw these guys?"

Lazuli cut his eyes over to him. "That depends."

"On?"

"How well the new Sergeant likes you."

"Then why are you here, and not him?"

"To decide how much he likes you." His teeth flashed.

Harry put another few inches of space between them. Lazuli laughed.

Finally, they rounded a corner and met up with two soldiers guarding an airlocked door, the type Harry had seen in bank robbery movies. A touchscreen panel stood to the side with the outline of a hand on it.

"Lieutenant Lapis Lazuli and Private Harold Smith to see the prisoner," he drawled.

The hawk-nosed soldier on the left grinned. "Back so soon?"

Lazuli gave him a cold stare.

"Right, then," the soldier coughed. He turned to a second touch-screen panel that had been hidden behind him, while the second soldier placed his hand on the first panel. "Three..two…one," he counted, and each man turned a key with their right hands as a laser scanned the left. The door's lock pushed outward with a soft rush of air.

"Enjoy," said the soldier on the right with a smile. Lazuli stepped past the door, followed by Harry. Beyond it was another long corridor.

Harry glanced at the other man curiously. "Lapis Lazuli?"

He flashed a dimple. "What can I say? Nuns have a funny sense of humor."

"Nuns?"

"You know, wear habits, pray for your soul every time you enter a room or sneeze, worship the Pope…"

"You're Catholic?"

"Did I say I was?"

"But—"

"Here we are." They stood in front of another steel door and touch-screen scanner, this one with a keypad as well. He placed his hand on the screen and looked at Harry. His face went blank. "Don't speak 'til I tell you. Stay in the corner and keep your hands to yourself. I need to tell you what'll happen if you don't?"

Harry shook his head. He knew the man was serious. "Are you gonna give me my five minutes?"

Lazuli held his gaze, considering. Then he turned back to the keypad, pushed several buttons, and opened the door. Harry followed him in.

The room was huge and freezing cold. The entire left side was a row of barred doors, sealing off smaller cells with two bunks and a steel toilet in each one. Lazuli led him down to the last cell.

The pale man, bloodied but obviously still alive, sat up against the wall on his cot. He looked up indifferently at a grinning Lazuli as he knocked on the bars with his gun.

"Told ya I'd be back," the lieutenant said.

The grey-eyed man stared stoically.

"Any words for me yet, Goldie? How 'bout 'please.' I like that one."

Harry stayed back, studying what he could see of the man. He looked young, maybe around Harry's age (whatever that was). His cloak had been removed, and what clothes he had worn before had been replaced with a bright orange jumpsuit that looked as out of place as a tutu on Lazuli's Pope. It looked and felt like sacrilege.

His face was pointy, with an aristocratic cut to his chin that the ruffled, sweat- and blood-slicked hair couldn't belie. Harry could tell that his limbs were long and elegant, even folded up as they were. He was probably taller than Harry. Not that that was unusual.

Other than the blood on his head, he didn't seem to be injured. His hands were cuffed in front of him, though he positioned himself in such a way as to make it look like casual wear rather than a tool of his imprisonment.

Unable to raise a response from the man, Lazuli finally turned to Harry. "So how you like my new toy?" he asked.

Harry raised his eyebrow in question.

"Sergeant said he's stayin' for a while. Gave me a free pass to make the bird sing." The eyes above his grin stayed cold, calculating. Harry shivered. "Maybe I'll let you watch sometimes."

Harry grimaced. "No thanks."

"No?" Suspicious. _Shit. _"Thought you'd like a bit of hands-on play time after what this guy did to you at the coliseum."

"Yeah, well…wait, what do you mean, 'what he did'?"

Lazuli looked back at the pale man, who hadn't taken his eyes off the lieutenant. His voice took on a bored tone. "Ask him. Couple of soldiers found him standing over you. Took a shot at him, but the chickenshits just grazed his head. Soon as he went down, they said, you had some kind of seizure." He rifled through a pocket and pulled out a pack of Skittles. "Any idea what that was about?"

Harry shook his head. He remembered the strange images he'd seen, but he didn't want to say anything in front of Lazuli.

The lieutenant popped a Skittle in his mouth and offered the bag to Harry. The look on his face was anything but friendly. Harry wondered briefly if the man was schizophrenic. "No thanks," he said.

Lazuli poured the candy into his palm. "Want 'im on the hook or on a chair?"

Harry grimaced. "Erm…"

"Personally, I like the hook." He gestured a lazy hand toward an iron loop that stood out from the opposite wall, high up towards the ceiling. "Full access," he grinned.

Harry felt nauseous. He didn't care how suspicious it might look, he didn't even want to think of the pale man tied up in either scenario. "I think I'll pass. Just…keep him as he is."

Lazuli studied him, calculating. "Curious, aren't you?" Finally, he shrugged. "Stay away from the bars," he said. "Rather not have to clean your brains off the floor." He walked to the door, eating a few more Skittles on the way. "Back in five," he said, and left.

***

"Ironic, isn't it."

Harry startled. He'd spent the last minute staring at the man's cuffed hands, trying to figure out how to begin. The prisoner hadn't moved from his cot, but suddenly he seemed more alive than he'd been a moment before. "What?" he asked dumbly.

"This feels familiar, doesn't it? The two of us, on opposite sides of the bars."

Harry stepped closer, minding that he stayed out of arm's reach of the cell door. "What do you mean?"

"Don't be coy, Harry." There was a hopeless air about the eyes that set him on edge. "You are starting to remember, aren't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you? Isn't that why you're here? Or did you come to ask how I put you into seizures with my eyes? Maybe you want a bit of revenge, is that it Harry? Did you come to brag?"

This was wrong, Harry thought. "You're not supposed to be like this," he said quietly.

The prisoner's eyes softened, then turned away. "Neither are you," he said.

Harry swallowed. "Who are you?"

The man's eyes flashed.

"We knew each other once, didn't we?" Harry continued. "How did you know me? Were we close? Did—"

"Get out," he said.

Harry froze. "I just—"

"Get out. Get out. Get the fuck _out!"_ he grabbed his pillow and threw it at the bars.

"At least tell me your name!"

"Do you not speak English? Did you forget that too? I said get out of here, Potter, or you'll find out what I can do without a wand."

"Potter?"

The man froze. "Fuck." It was an odd work, coming from that mouth. In a flurry on motion he stood at the bars, his grip white. "You forget that name, do you hear me? You forget it, or by Merlin I'll gut you if I have to come back as a bloody ghost to do it. Now get out!" He turned around and sat back down on his bed, facing the wall this time.

Harry's anger was getting the best of him. "Tell me why," he demanded. "What's so important about that name? It's mine, isn't it?"

The man's back stayed still as a statue.

"If you don't tell me, then I'll just find out for myself. I'll say the name Harry Potter to everyone I meet until I find someone else who recognizes it."

A miniscule lowering of the shoulders. "Gryffindor idiot," he muttered. Harry strained to hear. "Do want you want. That's what you always do, isn't it?"

Harry frowned. He was about to question further when the door opened and Lazuli came sauntering back in. "Playtime's over," he said.

The lieutenant looked curiously at the pillow in the floor of the cell and the closed posture of the man inside. "Had a good time, did we?"

Harry clenched his fists and strode out the door. He didn't look back.

***

A/N: In case you're wondering, no, Lazuli isn't really Catholic. He grew up on the streets and met a nun once who told him his eyes looked like lapis lazuli. The name stuck. So now you see why he tends to blend in and out of what one reviewer called "ebonics." And no, it's not ebonics. If it was, he'd be saying things like "Where you be, bo?" His dialect is actually a mix of my own invention and one spoken by characters in Karin Lowachee's books. Incidentally, Lazuli's character has roots in her book titled Warchild. I suggest you read it, if you like this story.

I hope you enjoyed this update. The chapter sort of possessed me over the past week, after I looked back at the reviews and felt that I wanted to give you more. Hopefully I won't be in too much trouble at work. ;)

As always, please keep me inspired with your reviews.

RT


	6. Undone

**Chapter 5**

**Undone**

The crisp night air cooled his lungs. Soft blades of grass tickled the skin of his face and arms; he felt an ant make it way across the back of his hand. He breathed deep. The constellations above him seemed to sway gently, rippling like a jeweled cloak across the sky. A spattering of clouds ringed the full moon in a soft halo. The rhythmic sound of water lapping against a shore lulled him.

In the distance, a howl lifted and fell in mournful notes.

"Thought I would find you here, Potter."

The stars melted into an elaborate green and silver canopy; grass turned to silken blankets upon a lushly pillowed bed. Harry felt himself smile as he turned his head to face the door. Pale beauty glowed in the moonlight from the window. He ignored the frown on the other's face and reached out his arm. "Come here," he said.

The haloed boy raised an elegant brow and crossed his arms. "Who are you today, then?"

"Harry. Just Harry."

Gray eyes softened, but he didn't move. "They expect us in the dining hall in ten minutes."

Harry twitched his fingers. "Think they'll notice if we don't show up?"

"That's not funny, Harry."

"Sure it is," he said. "Just imagine the look on the Dark Lord's face. Think he'd _crucio_ the turkey? Or is it _filet mignon_ tonight?"

"More likely my father."

"For dinner?"

The blonde made a face. "You're a bit loopy, aren't you? Did Professor Snape give you something?"

Harry thought of coal-black eyes and a steaming cup. He giggled. "Might have. Am I bleeding?"

The other boy glided closer to the bed and took Harry's face in his hands. Harry shivered and stared at the miniscule freckles on the pale cheekbones and sculpted nose above him. He wondered what those freckles would taste like.

"I expect you and your loose tongue will be the entertainment tonight, then," the boy said. "Try to keep your brains in your head, will you?"

Harry giggled again at the image. On impulse, he rose up and licked the other boy's cheek.

The boy recoiled. "Potter, you idiot!" he sputtered, wiping his cheek. "Fine. Have it your way, then. Mipsy!" A floppy-eared creature appeared with a pop. "Take this oaf downstairs for dinner. And make him look presentable. I'm sure the Dark Lord would not be pleased if he looks like he just got out of bed."

"Yes, Master Draco sir!"

"And do something with his hair."

***

Harry awoke, gasping. For a moment he stared into the darkness above him, grounding himself in the prickly cotton blanket of his cot, so different from the silk of a moment ago. Merlin, he hated this darkness.

_Merlin?_

He sat up and felt his way towards the light switch by the door, and flipped it. Blearily, he made his way to the small sink and washed his face in cold water. He supposed he should be thankful that his dreams had taken a turn to the less gruesome, even if they were just as strange. After all, who had a normal conversation about a "Dark Lord"?

Maybe he was a junkie in his other life…

But then, hadn't he seen the sci-fi light show for himself at the coliseum? And hadn't Lazuli confirmed that the men in black cloaks were, in fact, real?

Hadn't he spoken to the pale man himself?

A pale man who used words like "Merlin" and "Potter" and… "_wand?"_

Harry scrubbed his face dry on the rough terrycloth towel and tossed it on the bed. He had to get out of this room.

The door opened easily, almost surprising if you discounted the soldiers standing guard throughout the complex. He still wasn't allowed outside, not until the orders came down that he was safe to return to base (meaning he would keep his mouth shut). Lazuli said to expect it sometime today or tomorrow. Or the day after, depending on whether it was morning now or not. It was hard to tell with no windows or clocks around.

He caught the attention of the first soldier he saw. "Sir," he nodded.

The soldier stared.

"Is there anyplace I can eat around here?" Harry asked. "You have a canteen?"

The soldier nodded his head to the right. "Take the elevator down to the second floor," he said. "Three right turns. Follow the signs."

Harry thanked him and went in the direction he had pointed.

The canteen was almost empty when he got there. A clock on the wall declared that it was 0318 hours. An Indian-looking man behind the counter glanced up from his crossword puzzle as Harry walked in. Then proceeded to ignore him.

Harry picked up a wilted chicken sandwich and a bottle of water and gave the man his name to charge his account. He spotted an internet kiosk in the corner and brought his premature breakfast to the table. A large red sign glued to the wall above the monitor said, "Read-Only Access."

Harry had learned a few things about computers over the past year or so. He may not have been completely tech-savvy, but he knew how to find information. He started with the Google homepage.

He typed the words "Harry Potter" and clicked Enter.

***

Two hours later, Harry gave up.

It was simply too common a name to research, and he didn't know where to look for birth records or pictures of the Potters that he found. One thing he did know: there was no mention in the public records of a Harry Potter reported missing over the past two years. He wondered what that meant about his family.

Maybe they were out of the country?

Or maybe they were dead. After all, there was a war going on. They could have been at a place just like the coliseum, killed before they knew what was happening.

Or maybe they were the ones wearing the black cloaks…

Harry flipped the computer off. He knew of only one person who could tell him.

Two days, and he was still stuck in this hole.

"I thought you said I would be out by now," he said to an indifferent Lazuli.

The lieutenant shrugged and pulled on his cigarette, watching Harry eat. It was the first he had seen the man since that day he'd been introduced to the prisoner. Lazuli said, "Sergeant's busy. Public appearances, politicians, funerals to plan…" He blew a cloud of smoke into Harry's space. "All that good stuff."

"Can't you just sign the order yourself?"

"And why would I do that?"

Harry grimaced. "Nevermind."

The man grinned toothily. The woman at the table behind him stood and carried her tray to the trash bin, leaving their corner of the canteen empty.

Harry kept his voice down anyways. He was almost afraid to ask. "Has the prisoner spoken yet?"

There was too much amusement in those cold eyes. "A few words," he said.

"What did he say?"

"Oh, you know, the usual. 'Stop,' 'please,' 'it hurts,'" he flicked his cigarette. "Keeps sayin' the name 'Merlin,' too, whatever that's about."

Harry put his pickle down. Suddenly his stomach felt like lead.

"Wanna come watch? I'm goin' back up there in ten."

"No th—" Harry swallowed. Didn't he want to speak to the man again? When would he get another chance? He forced a nonchalant look on his face. At least he tried to. "All right," he said.

The lieutenant raised his brows. "Really."

"Y—yeah," Harry said. "Like you said. He killed all those people, didn't he? Or he's partly responsible. I want to see him pay."

Lazuli stared for an excruciating moment. Then he flashed a dimple. "All right, kid. Let's go play with the big bad wolf."

***

"Ghost" was an appropriate word to describe the prisoner today. He was too pale, stark against the orange of his jumpsuit. His hair had crusted with sweat and blood, and he had developed a nervous habit of scraping at it with his fingers. He tracked Lazuli's movements with red-rimmed eyes.

Black and purple bruises dotted his face and arms. Something in Harry tightened at the sight.

"Happy to see me?" Lazuli asked. He chuckled at his own joke, his eyes assessing. Harry kept behind him as he had done before, fidgeting with his pockets. Suddenly he didn't want to be here anymore.

Lazuli took a nightstick from his belt and tapped the bars with it idly. The prisoner flinched.

"You 'member my friend here, don't you?" he continued in a casual voice. "Why don't you say hello?"

Harry looked sharply at the lieutenant, but his face gave nothing away. The prisoner brushed his hair away from his eyes and scratched his scalp. He watched the nightstick warily.

Lazuli's lips stretched in a slow smile. "Playtime it is, then." Harry's heart jumped into his throat. "Stand and face the wall," the lieutenant barked.

Harry wiped sweaty palms on his pants. He couldn't do this. He had to get out of here. He had to stop this. He had to fucking _breathe_.

Helplessly, he watched the prisoner push himself up from his cot. If the man just looked at him—if he just looked him in the eyes, Harry thought, then maybe he could do _something_…the man lifted his chin…

…and something about him seemed to deflate. Slowly, he turned towards the wall. Not once did he look at Harry.

Lazuli stepped forward.

The movement was automatic. Harry grabbed Lazuli's arm. "Wait."

The lieutenant looked at him, surprised. Not happy.

"I can get him to talk," Harry went on. The words spilled out like so much garbage. "Let me do it."

Lazuli smirked. "Eager, kid? Relax. I'll let you have a turn."

"No. I mean—" He faltered, trying to find the words. "He spoke to me, before."

"Come again?" Sharp.

Harry licked his lips. "He said—he told me that I look like someone he knew. A friend of his. Someone named Po—"

"Shut up!"

Harry and Lazuli both spun around. The prisoner had turned back to face them, fists clenched. His teeth were bared in a snarl.

"Well well," Lazuli whistled. "It speaks."

Harry didn't know whether to feel triumphant or not. Something squirmed in his stomach.

"You see?" he said. Swallowed. "I think he'll talk to me again, sir. Give me ten, fifteen minutes with him."

The lieutenant's eyes were evaluating. He tapped his nightstick against his thigh, studying Harry for a long moment. Finally, the edge of his mouth curled upward. "Why not." He stepped back and watched expectantly.

"Erm…" Harry cleared his throat. He should have expected the man to stay. What could he say to the prisoner in front him? "So. Are you hungry?" He cringed.

Lazuli snorted.

The prisoner stared at him mockingly, but held his tongue. "Has he eaten?" Harry asked the lieutenant. "Can we get him something?"

A half-empty bag of Skittles, warm and slightly crushed, was handed his way. Harry took the bag and offered it to the bars. A pale eyebrow rose condescendingly.

"Come on, you must be hungry." He jiggled the packet slightly, feeling ridiculous. His ears turned hot. "Right. Well."

"Forget it, kid. This the kind o'scum likes babies and kittens for breakfast."

The prisoner sneered.

Harry cleared his throat. "Sir, can I talk to you for a moment?"

Lazuli raised his brows in amusement and shrugged. He led the way to the opposite side of the room and looked at Harry with the question in his eyes.

"Look, he talked to me before, like I said. I know I can do it again."

"But?"

"I don't think he'll talk while you're here."

Lazuli's face closed.

"Just give me fifteen minutes, like I said. What do you want to know?"

"You ain't trained, kid. You think he's gonna tell you his life story 'cause he likes your face? Tell you where home is so we can blow up his friends? In fifteen minutes." His arm snatched out, grabbed Harry's. His fingers dug into a nerve. "Don't play with me, kid. I play back."

"I can gain his trust—"

"Bullshit," Lazuli said. "You want something. What is it?"

Harry clenched his teeth, his arm stabbing points of pressure under the man's hand. _Shit shit shit._ _Back down, Harry._ He tried to relax. "Look. You want to waste time trying to torture information out of him, fine. Forget I said anything."

Lazuli squeezed his arm, preventing Harry from stepping back.

Measuring. Harry tried not to hold his breath.

Finally, the lieutenant loosened his grip. "Start small," he said. "Depending on what you find out, maybe you come back again. Things like this, you gotta do in small doses." He leaned in. "I find out you're playin' me," he said casually, "I'll break your balls. Got it?"

Harry swallowed. "Yes, sir."

"Good." Lazuli flashed his cold grin and released Harry, sliding his hand over skin. "Like I said before, stay away from the bars. Wouldn't wanna ruin that pretty face o' yours." He left. Harry's skin crawled.

***

"You imbecile. You absolute, nit-witted, bloody fool!" the prisoner snarled.

Harry walked back to the cell nervously. The prisoner was standing just beyond the bars, fists clenched, fire in his expression. Harry felt it spark and shudder in his chest.

"Draco," he said.

The man startled. His face nearly crumpled, some strong emotion flitting through red-rimmed eyes. "No," he whispered.

"Draco. That's your name, isn't it?"

The man stepped closer to the bars and grasped them loosely with shaky, reddened fingers.

"I had a dream last night. This morning. Whenever." Harry brushed his hand through his hair. "I felt…close to you. Like I could tell you anything."

Bitter longing swept over his features and vanished. "We hated each other. We always have."

Harry shook his head. "No. We didn't."

"I'm the enemy, Potter, remember?" Somehow there wasn't as much vitriol as there should have been in those words.

"No, you're not."

Incredulity. "You saw me at that muggle stadium. Don't tell me you suddenly don't care about all of the people who died there. The people we murdered." Harry flinched.

"I thought—you didn't—"

"The man you killed, Enric Dolohov. He was my partner. We were there together."

Harry's stomach rebelled. "But you didn't—"

"Kill anyone? Just because you didn't see it doesn't mean it didn't happen."

The silence grew heavy.

"Why?"

The man—Draco—turned his face to the side. Harry found himself searching his cheek for the freckles he knew lay past the bruises. "Why don't you ask what you really want to know."

Harry frowned. "What?"

"Were you one of us?" His eyes shadowed. "Were you a murderer once, too?"

Harry's heart beat loudly in his ears.

"Yes. You were."

Such a simple statement. Such a simple breaking.

"You were one of our best." Draco's gaze pierced right through him. "Do you still want to remember?"

Harry couldn't breathe. "No. No, I couldn't have—"

"Look where you are, Harry." His eyes swept over Harry's uniform. "A soldier, even without your memory. You're drawn to the fight, aren't you?"

"I'm not—I don't just go around killing people!"

"Neither do we."

Harry laughed, somewhat unhinged. "You're kidding. All those innocent people! What did they ever do to you? What did they do to deserve that?"

Draco's eyes flashed with bitter humor. "They exist."

Harry shook his head. "You're crazy."

"So were you."

"Shut up!"

"Isn't this what you want to know? I thought you wanted to remember. The great Harry Potter. The killer you really are."

Harry clenched his fists so tight his nails cut into his skin. "You're lying."

"Am I?"

"Yes!" He stepped forward and grabbed the prisoner's—Draco's—chin before he could back away. "I know you," he said fiercely. "I may not remember, but I know you. You're not like this. You're not some cold-blooded killer, and you're not—not—so bitter and jaded and—and _cruel_."

The muscles under his fingers tightened as the blonde's mouth twisted. His eyes were dark with an emotion that Harry couldn't name. "A year is a long time," he whispered.

"Why don't I remember?" Harry asked quietly.

Pale lashes fluttered. The fight seemed to drain out of Draco.

"Because you wanted to forget," he said.

Harry released him and stepped back. "You're wrong."

Draco just stared.

"You're wrong," he said again. But somehow the words fell flat in his ears.

***

A/N: Wow, two chapters in one week. I hope this at least makes up a little bit for the long wait before the last chapter. The next chapter will be out soon as well.

By the way, I fixed formatting errors in the last chapter. Forgot to check the chapter over after I uploaded it.

Please do REVIEW! Reviews keep me going. I probably wouldn't have continued the story without them. So please, let me know what you think!

RT


	7. We Have Lingered

**Chapter 6**

**We Have Lingered in the Chambers of the Sea**

--from "The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock," by T. S. Eliot

***

Sergeant Walker wasn't the only soldier who died that night. But his was the death felt most keenly in Harry's barracks.

Scarlet spent long hours in the quieter areas of the Rec room, talking with Sandstone or staring into space. The military was sending her back home at the end of the week, to help with her father's funeral and find what comfort she could. She had requested the shortest leave she could take, only fourteen days. Sandstone said that she was anxious to join the fight.

Harry's empathy towards her scared him.

Ever since his talk with Draco, he didn't know whether he wanted to fight the terrorists because of the crimes they had committed, or because somewhere, inside, killing came naturally to him. Sometimes, when he saw the lost look on Scarlet's face, or caught a glimpse of the telly showing face after face of missing persons and grieving family members, he thought of the 'ghost' that he'd killed, and felt a thrill of satisfaction. Sometimes, he thought it didn't matter what he might have been before.

At least he was fighting for the right side, now.

The new Sergeant, Heartsease, had told him that his orders still stood; now more than ever, they needed more soldiers in the field. Harry would be shipped out before Scarlet even got back. Along with him would be Wickes and Sandstone, the latter of which seemed to swing continuously between excited, anxious, and scared to death. Harry had walked in on him in the bathroom one day, pacing and hiccupping with his hands in his spiked hair. Harry pretended not to see the wet stains on his cheeks, and swore to never mention a thing to "anyone, anywhere on this planet, or anywhere in the galaxy, especially Munez."

Wickes showed his nerves by disappearing into his journal more and more often and closing the book whenever someone came close enough to look over his shoulder. When Munez and Madison harassed him enough over his writing, he found a hole somewhere on base and disappeared into it. Harry had yet to find out where it was.

Munez was leaving too in a month, but he was shipping out with the airborne division. Madison, as it turned out, was going for airborne too. The two of them had a bet going on whose first pair of wings would be bigger.

Harry spent what time he could on the shooting range, trying not to think. Every afternoon, Lazuli picked him up for an hour of "off-base training." The others thought he was taking some sort of special equipment ops. Lazuli called it intelligence-gathering. Harry called it torture.

The name Enric Dolohov had brought no results, but it was a start. Harry wasn't sure if Lazuli allowed him to talk to Draco because he hoped for information or because he knew Harry wanted it and he wanted something in return. He hoped to be far away from Lazuli by the time he decided to collect.

Draco looked more ragged every time he saw him. There was a tightness around his mouth, a pinched look that spoke of the effort it took to keep quiet. Harry started to wonder if he was betraying him by speaking to Lazuli. Then again, he only gave away information about the enemy. Nothing worth keeping secret. Nothing personal, like Draco's name, or the fact that he hated carrots.

"You have to stop coming here," Draco said at their third such meeting. "It's annoying."

Harry had folded himself Indian-style on the floor by the bars of the cell. "Why don't you want me to remember?" he asked. "You said I was your best fighter, right? So you should want me to fight for your side. You should be doing everything you can to get me to remember, and to come back."

Draco picked at the leg of his jumpsuit, knee raised on the cot before him. "Maybe I am. Maybe I manipulated you into returning here so I could jog your memory with my mind magic."

Harry snorted. "Not doing a good job of that, are you?"

"Tell me about your dreams."

"Tell me about your people," Harry countered. "How many are you? Where do you get your weapons from? How do you use them? Who's your—"

Draco was chuckling. "You sound like the muggle," he said.

"What's a muggle?"

"An idiot with a gun."

Harry's lips twitched. "Like the idiots that managed to capture you and put you in here?"

"Exactly."

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"So," Draco said. "I'm rather partial to the color green. How about you?"

***

"Do you know where they're keeping my possessions?"

"Of course. Why don't I just go get them for you?"

"Why don't you?"

"You're the one with magic. Why don't you magic them here? Better yet, why don't you magic your way out?"

"Because I would miss your ugly face."

"Right."

"If you like me so much, why don't you help me escape?"

"You're right. Here, I'll just grab my magic wand—oh, damn. I must have left it in my other pants. I expect it's in the wash by now."

"You are here to torture me, aren't you?"

"Is it working?"

"Hmm."

***

"Is that really your natural hair color?"

"…"

"Are you trying to do some kind of mind-magic on me? Because I don't think it's working."

"Very funny. Tell me, do you even try to comb your hair in the morning? I can see your scalp when you turn your head."

"Like I care how my hair looks, Draco."

"Then why are you brushing it with your hand? Do you have lice?"

"Would you like some?"

***

"…and Wickes disappeared again last night. Everyone has money riding on the person who manages to get his journal away from him. Munez wants to read it over the loudspeaker. 'Course, he probably thinks there's something pornographic in there, but that's only because it's what he would write about, if he kept a journal. His mind would be a disgusting place to visit."

"I'll be sure to keep out of it, then."

"Hmm. Wickes reminds me of one of my foster brothers, you know. Brandon. The others were always harassing him because he was quiet."

"I wouldn't mind some quiet."

"Really. You want me to go away, then?"

"…"

"All right. I suppose I am a bit hungry."

"…What was his name? Brian?"

"Brandon."

"Right."

"Well anyways, one time he…"

***

"I'm leaving in three days."

"By all means, go play with your toy soldiers."

"Are you going to be all right?"

Draco gave him that look—the one that fit every derogatory term into the space between them.

"Right. Guess I deserve that."

Now he gave him a look that said, _when do you not?_

"I wish I could help you. Believe me."

"Will you give my regards to my friends before you kill them?"

Harry blinked. "What?"

Draco had entered one of his melancholic moods. He glared at Harry. "What will you do when my father is the one aiming his wand at you? Will you kill him?"

Harry looked away. "I wouldn't know what your father even looks like."

"Oh, you'll know. Sort of a taller version of me."

"And if he's trying to kill me? Am I supposed to just let him?"

"Yes."

"Bull."

Draco sighed. "There's something I haven't told you yet."

"No kidding."

"Shut up." He picked at his pant leg. "There are more than two sides to this war, Harry. Not all people like us are allied with the…_terrorists_," he said. The last word was a sneer.

"People like us? You mean people who like to wear black cloaks and make light shows?"

"Don't be dense. People with magic."

"Right."

Draco looked exasperated. "You still don't believe in it, do you? After everything you saw?"

Harry crossed his arms. "Show me a magic trick, then."

"I told you, I need my wand first."

"Of course."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "When the muggles first found you, over a year ago, what were you wearing? What did you have on you?"

_A black cloak and a 'magic' stick._ "That proves nothing."

"Where is your wand, anyway? What did you do with it?"

"If you mean the stick they found me with, it's in my bag back at base."

Draco looked surprised. "You have it with you? Why the hell didn't you bring it here?!"

"It's just a stick!"

"You idiot!" He got up to pace.

"It's not magic!"

"Isn't it?" Draco's eyes blazed. "Then why did you keep it with you? If it's just a stick, why not toss it? You can't tell me you don't feel something every time you touch it."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. He hadn't touched it since he'd first put it in the bag, and it gave him an electric shock.

"You have to bring it here, Harry," Draco said, face intense. "Bring it here, and I'll show you magic. I'll tell you everything you want to know."

Harry scoffed. "And if someone sees me with it?"

"They won't. They didn't notice it when they checked your bags in the first place, did they? You live on a military base, they must have gone through your things when you first arrived. It must be spelled with notice-me-not charms."

Harry shook his head. "This is nuts. Even if what you're saying is true, you're asking me to put a weapon in your hand and help you escape so you can get back to your terrorist friends and kill more people. I'm not doing it."

Draco had frozen in disbelief. "I thought you said I wasn't a killer, Potter."

"I thought you said you were."

It was almost physically painful to watch Draco's face turn cold. "I said the same of you," he sneered. "What would your muggle friends think if they found out what you really are, Potter? What would they do to you if they found out that you're just like me?" He walked up to the bars. "A terrorist '_ghost?'"_

Harry felt the blood drain from his face. "I'm not—you wouldn't—"

"Wouldn't I? I'm just a murderer, after all. What do I care whether they stick you in the next cell over and hang you up and beat you with a stick? If they don't kill you for betraying them. That muggle soldier with the pony-tail, he might do it. He's the type who wouldn't think twice about it."

Harry never knew betrayal could feel like such a physical pain. He'd backed away, without even realizing it. "They wouldn't believe you."

"No? Then I guess I'll just have to tell them about your magic stick."

"You said they wouldn't find it."

"They would if they knew to look for it."

Harry rubbed his elbows. "You would really do that?" he whispered.

Draco swallowed, but his voice was steady. "Bring the wand, and I won't have to."

They gazed at each other, the silence thick and ringing with sharp edges. Harry felt a weight settle back onto his shoulders that he hadn't even noticed was gone. "All right," he said, his throat dry. He cleared it. "All right."

***

A/N: Like I said, I'm possessed by this story at the moment. Harry and Draco demanded to be written, and I obeyed. BTW, Harry's comeback about Draco trying and faling to use mind-magic on him when he asked about his hair felt a bit too familiar as I wrote it. If you recognize it from somewhere else, let me know and I'll change it.

Hope you like the Harry/Draco interaction as much as I had fun writing it. They needed some 'normal' interaction for a while…sorry to those of you hoping that Draco would tell Harry everything; he's a bit conflicted right now in how he should act toward Harry.

Please review. This patient needs an IV.

Thanks to sasukichan, BlackMarcifulFaerie, Tainted Blood Lust, Lunarmercury, and Micro chibi baka-san for your reviews.

RT


	8. Ghost

**Chapter 7**

**Ghost**

*******

The dorm room echoed in its lack of sound and movement at nineteen-hundred hours in the evening. Everyone but Harry and Wickes had gathered in the Rec room to enjoy one of the last nights they would spend on base.

Harry sat on his bunk with his bag in his lap. He had taken out a picture of his group-home family, idly chipping off a bit of food that stuck to the corner. At the bottom of the duffel, a hard, thin object poked into his thigh. It almost felt warm.

There was nothing paranormal about why he'd kept that stick. It was just one of the few things he had from his past; he couldn't leave it behind in a house where children and possessions both came and went like so much paperwork. He'd known more than a few kleptos in his stay there, one of whom (he suspected the goth) had already taken his torn black cloak.

But…if it was just a stick, then why was he so loathe to touch it?

And why did Draco want it so badly?

_Because he's unbalanced. Torture will do that to a person._

"Um, Harry." He looked up. Wickes was watching him hesitantly from the haven he'd made of his own bunk. The infamous journal lay open on his lap, pen poised above it. "You're going to destroy that picture if you keep scratching at it."

Harry glanced down at the photo in his hands and twitched in surprise. Not only was the brownish food stain gone; half of his own face was scratched away as well, revealing scabbed white paper beneath. He slipped it back into a side pocket of the duffel. "Sorry," he muttered.

Wickes shrugged, an odd look on his face. "Don't mention it," he said.

Harry traced the outline of his 'wand' through the fabric with the fingers of his left hand. He wondered if possession of it could be counted as treason. He wondered if he should have turned it in to Lazuli. Maybe, if he really had been one of the enemy before he lost his memory...if he really had been the killer that Draco said he was…didn't he deserve whatever the military decided to do to him? Was it even safe to have him around them?

Maybe he should just turn himself in.

"Harry? Are you all right?"

He took a deep breath. Wickes was tapping his pen against the paper. An ink mark ran down the side of his mouth. "I'm fine," he said.

The other boy frowned and lowered his eyes to his journal. It struck Harry that Wickes was actually initiating conversation; maybe he wanted to talk. He wished briefly that the boy had chosen someone else to come out of his shell with.

Harry cleared his throat. "Are you?" he asked awkwardly.

Wickes shrugged. "Can you think of another word for 'unfeeling?' Not cold, or callous, but…_unable_ to feel…"

"Numb?"

He stared down at his writing. "Numb," he muttered, scribbling on the paper, "that'll work."

"What are you writing?"

He shrugged. "This 'n that," he mumbled.

Harry waited.

A sigh. "You ever have second thoughts? About joining?" The boy's eyes stayed on his journal.

Harry fidgeted with his bag uncomfortably. "Not really," he said. "I mean, they need us out there. I want to help." Somehow the words felt old, overused.

Wickes rubbed his nose. Another pen mark appeared on his cheek. "Yeah, me too," he said.

Harry's fingers counted the ridges on the 'wand' in his bag.

"I used to go hunting every summer with my father," Wickes said. "He had a license in America, too. I shot a grey wolf, once."

"You're pretty good at it. Shooting, I mean."

"Yeah." Tap-tap-tap. "The grey wolf's an endangered species, though. I shouldn't have killed it. My dad just wanted it stuffed for his collection. You should see his hunting lodge. It's like a museum."

Harry had never heard so many words from the boy's mouth.

"He wanted me to enlist, too. Not that he forced me or anything," he added hastily. "I wanted to help. My dad's friend, his whole family got caught in the Glouster attack. You know, when the bridge collapsed? Their daughter survived, but she's in the Sunshine House on suicide watch. I went to school with her when I was little."

"I'm sorry."

"I didn't know her that well. She was one of the popular kids, you know?"

Harry didn't, really, but he nodded.

"I just—I want to help. But…" His pen stilled. "Harry…I know you probably don't want to talk about it, but I heard that you…you killed one of them." He shifted. "What…what was it like?"

Harry swallowed. "I don't know," he said, uncomfortable. "It just…sort of…happened."

"What about after? Did you feel guilty?"

"I was unconscious. And then…well, he was a sick bastard anyway. He enjoyed what he did, I could tell." He thought of the insane light in Dolohov's eyes and shuddered.

"You think they're all like that? The terrorists?"

Harry fingered the duffel. "I don't know. I guess."

Wickes turned a page. "I know we're supposed to think of them as targets, not people, but…" He trailed off.

Harry thought of Draco and had no words to answer with.

After a moment, Wickes's pen started scratching again.

***

"Did you bring it?"

Harry crossed his arms. Draco looked restless today; it was understandable, since his supposed means of escape was only about a meter away. He clutched at the bars of his cell with white knuckles. Harry wondered if this would be the last time he'd see the man.

"Tell me about the others first," he said. "You told me before that people like you—" the other sneered, "—okay, _'magical'_ people," he amended, "are not all terrorists. Is it true?"

Draco made an impatient noise. "I told you, I'll give you all the answers you want, _after _you give me the wand. Just let me have it first." He reached his hand out through the bars.

Harry hesitated. "We have twenty minutes. I'll give it to you before I leave."

Draco gritted his teeth. "Come on, Harry. Don't you want to see how it works?"

"No."

"What difference does it make whether I talk before or after you give me the wand?"

"I can't trust you."

A flash of hurt. Then coldness. Bitter, familiar cold. "Right," he said. "You'll give me the wand before you leave? Do you swear it?"

Harry nodded.

With a forced sigh, Draco slowly returned to his cot and folded his legs up before him. He stared stoically at the soldier before him.

"The ones not allied with you. Are they a rebel faction? Who are they?"

"This is going to be difficult to explain to someone who won't admit that magic even exists."

"Try."

Draco looked away. "Some of them are neutral. They have nothing to do with the fighting at all; they live among you like Muggles, or hide completely from the world. A lot of our people have left the country."

"Explain what Muggles are again."

"They're people without magic."

Harry cleared his throat. "All right. And the ones who are not neutral? Who are they?"

Draco smiled bitterly. "I don't have a list of names, Potter. But their leader is Albus Dumbledore."

"Do they fight against you?"

"They try."

"How many are there?"

Draco shrugged. "Like I said, I don't have a list. They call themselves the Order of the Flaming Bird or some such. Hogwarts still stands." He scratched his wrists beneath the cuffs and smirked bitterly at Harry's ignorance. "But you wouldn't know about that, would you? It's a school where they teach us to make 'light-shows.' You attended for six years before you went on an extended field trip on some kind of heroic quest with your side-kicks. Never did find out what for."

"What are you talking about?"

Draco ran a hand over his head, sullen. "Never mind. You wouldn't believe me, anyway."

Harry paced, annoyed. "Fine. So these Order people…where's their base? How do we contact them?"

"You don't."

"Come on, Draco—"

"You don't get it, do you?" he remarked, his tone acidic. "They would kill you, Harry. They have plenty of reason to. They may not recognize you at first…but some witches and wizards…they'd know you, even with the altered face."

Harry frowned. "Altered face? What is this, Mission Impossible? Witches and wizards? Do you have any idea how crazy this sounds?"

Draco's lips twisted. "Fine then. Send Albus Dumbledore an owl and invite him for tea. Let him put you out of your misery."

"Draco," Harry started, exasperated. "Would you stop with this attitude? I'm just trying to get some information to help my friends stay alive. If anyone has a reason to be angry here, I do. You're the one who blackmailed me."

Draco jerked to his feet and crossed to the bars. Harry felt the danger coil around him like an electric charge, raising the hair on his arms. "And _you _left me!" He shut his mouth tightly; unvoiced thoughts flashed through his eyes. Finally, he bared his teeth and snarled, "You left me here to be tortured every day when all this time you had the means to free me, and you refused to use it!"

Harry felt himself pale. "I didn't—I don't understand you. You say one thing and act another. What am I supposed to do?"

"You're supposed to trust me!"

"How can I?" He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "I thought I could trust my instincts, but…it's hard when I don't have the memories to back them up!"

Draco sneered with disgust. "Oh, stop fooling yourself Harry! You're so busy running away from your memories with your tail between your legs that you don't even know you're doing it! _Accio wand!"_

Harry's pant leg ripped at the calf as the wand soared out and into Draco's hand. It was hard to say who was more surprised as they both stared at the impossible, innocent-looking object clutched in his fingers. Finally, Draco hitched his breath and tore moist eyes away to look once more at the boy before him.

Harry felt light-headed. "How—"

_"Reparo."_ Harry's pant leg sewed itself back together and tuck itself into his boot once more. Draco breathed, exultant.

"There. Can you deny that magic exists now?" he sneered.

"That—that's not possible," Harry stuttered. A tickling pressure started to build behind his eyes.

The other man smirked. "Neither is this," he said, and pointed the wand at the lock on the cell door. _"Alohomora."_ It clicked open.

He whispered again, and the cuffs fell to the floor with a heavy rattle.

Harry backed into the wall as Draco advanced on him, wand twirling lightly between his fingers. His breath picked up as the pressure behind Harry's eyes became a pinch. "What are you doing?" he asked, automatically raising a hand in front of him, palm out. _Stop._

Draco studied the hand almost curiously; then, slowly, he reached up and placed his own before it. His hand was almost the same size as Harry's, thinner and slightly longer, pale but reddened in the fingers and down towards the wrist. "It is instinctual, isn't it?" he whispered. He brushed Harry's fingertips, sending jolts of warmth into his skin.

For once, Harry didn't flinch at the touch. He swallowed hard and clasped onto the hand to stop its movements. It was cold and rough in his grasp.

Before he knew it, the wand pressed into his left temple. "I could fix it for you," Draco whispered. "I could take it all away…let you go back to that perfect shining bubble of innocence you wrapped yourself in so long ago…give you the peace you so desperately wanted…" Silver eyes pinned him, motionless. "You'd never have to meet the monster inside of you. Let it sleep forever. Let everyone else fight the battles while you live your happily ever after…"

"No…"

"But you want it, Harry. You wield your ignorance like a weapon against the dark and all the memories it contains. You want this."

_I want you._ Pressure tightened around his head, pushing inward. "Whatever you're doing," Harry said breathlessly, "you don't have to. Please. I don't want to forget."

Draco narrowed his eyes.

"I don't want to forget this," Harry said again. Feeling his way, he continued, "You don't want it either, do you? You want me to remember you."

When the man hesitated, Harry gave into his impulses. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Draco's.

It was awkward at first, kissing a mouth slack with shock, but he focused on sucking gently at each lip until the other gained enough control to start kissing back. He pressed closer, careful, aware of the injuries hidden by the rough material under his fingers. Warmth settled in his stomach and spread through him like a liquid, simmering fire. He opened his eyes to see the pale lashes and freckles that fascinated him so.

With a muffled whine, Draco pressed forward and bit at Harry's lips until he opened them and allowed the tongue inside. Breath harsh in his ears, Harry scraped his free hand down Draco's back, feeling the corded muscles and ribs beneath the cloth until Draco suddenly yelped and pushed away. He panted heavily, skin flushed and blotchy under the harsh florescent lights. Harry's chest constricted. "Sorry," he muttered quickly.

Draco rubbed his lips with a shaky hand, the other now pointing the wand at the floor. He closed his eyes. "Merlin, Harry," he whispered.

"I'm—"

"Don't." He gave one bitter laugh. "Just—go home, Potter. Go back to your Muggle family and live your dream life."

Harry licked his lips. "I can't."

All the world seemed to hang on the tip of a pin. Draco opened his eyes and pierced Harry with a sigh. "Don't…" He cleared his throat. "Don't come looking for me, all right, Harry? Just…do that much for me."

Harry frowned, confused.

"And keep your real name to yourself. They might not recognize you now, but there are too many people out there who would kill you, if they find out who you are. On both sides of the fence. Don't trust anyone. Not even the Muggles."

"Aren't you—can't you take me with you?" he asked, not even really sure of what he was saying.

Draco gave him that look. "Don't be an idiot," he said. He brushed Harry's hair out of his eyes. "Same messy hair," he whispered, "you couldn't get rid of that. Just…a bit lighter. And your nose is narrower, your bone structure more…delicate, than it should be. It doesn't suit you. And your eyes should be green, not blue. I liked them better green."

Harry swallowed. His skin tingled where Draco had touched it. The pressure behind his eyes was gone, he noticed.

"Severus and I worked hard on the potion that would change you, protect you. Don't waste our efforts, Harry. Stay away from the wizarding world."

There was so much Harry wanted to ask; he didn't know where to start. "Will I see you again? Out there?"

Draco smirked. In the gesture, the ghost of a boy seemed to peek through the bruised countenance of the man. "Time's up," he whispered. And everything went dark.

***

Of course, Draco's escape never made it to the news. The only ones on base who seemed to know about it were Lazuli, whose eyes should have frozen half the compound, and Sergeant Heartsease, who looked unruffled but for the tic in his jaw when he interviewed Harry again on his last conversation with Draco and the supposed 'attack.'

Harry's nose and jaw were still swollen from whatever Draco had done to make it look like he had overpowered the soldier to escape. He'd also melted the bars in every cell into twisted sculptures of unmovable metal.

"He must have had help. Even ghosts can't just disappear without their…weapons," the sergeant said stoically. "Check the video feed again. Go earlier. Tell the techs to do a frame-by-frame check with a magnifying glass. Whatever caused the interference in that cell had to slip up sometime. I don't care if all we get is a picture of the ghost taking a piss. I want a face."

"Yes, sir," Lazuli said.

Harry discreetly pressed his sweaty palms against his fatigues. He knew that the security cameras in the prison cell had shot nothing but static since Draco had first arrived, but he didn't like even the slight chance that Harry's interaction with him could be seen or heard. Now that he'd seen Draco's ability with his own eyes, he suspected that the 'interference' was not a coincidence. Draco must have had a bit of magic without his wand, after all.

He still thought the idea of magic and wands sounded like a pipe dream. Even if it was real.

"I'm handing your reports to Lieutenant Gunning. He'll handle the inquiry. Debrief him at oh-seven hundred hours tomorrow and make yourself available to him for questioning over the next three days. Smith, that goes for you, too. I want you to tell Gunning every detail, right down to the prisoner's every sneeze. Copy?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now, Private, I'm sure you're aware that this puts you behind on your deployment. Don't worry, you'll catch up with your unit. You and Lieutenant Lazuli will ship out to the Somerset base in six days."

Harry's eyebrows shot up. "Lieutenant Lazuli and I, sir?"

"The lieutenant has remarked highly of your skills. He has recommended you personally for his team. Your unit will replace four of the soldiers he lost out in Bath."

Said pony-tailed lieutenant gave a shark's grin. "We the best of the best, kid."

Harry bit his tongue. "Thank you, sir," he managed.

_I don't care what you said, Draco, _he thought, _I will find you again, and I'll get my memories back, too._

I will find you.

***

A/N: End of the first arc. Wow. Can't believe we made it this far. Hopefully, it's enough to hold you over for a while until I get settled into my new old life. Might be a month or so until the next update.

Next arc will be full of magic, action, suspense, aching romance…all that good stuff.

My undying gratitude goes to Sevfan from Hexfiles for proofreading the last three chapters…and most of the others, for that matter.

Until next time, please review! Reviews inspire me to write faster…

RT


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